From Across The Sea
by Alversia
Summary: 3,000 years ago, the Kingdom of Aeanor was founded. Now, as war against Sauron beckons, it's young princess and heir must break their isolation and lead her nation against the Dark Lord and help see the Ring destroyed. 10th Walker Story.
1. Prologue: An Oath Taken

Aeanor was born of regret.

At the end of the Second Age, the island of Númenor stood unchallenged amongst the realms of Middle Earth. This kingdom of Men had far surpassed all the deeds of their kin in the centuries past. From their mighty throne, the great kings dictated the tempo and direction of all life in Middle Earth and beyond. Their cities, their fleets, their armies, their music and even their language were at the peak of their beauty, a testament to the will and ability of men.

But men's greatest strengths are also their greatest weaknesses. The desire to excel, the drive to be greater than those who came before soon turned down a darker path. For all of man's accomplishments, they were never going to be enough to sate an ambition that had grown out of control. For men sought to conquer the final journey, deny the long sleep and turn away from the gift of Eru. Man sought to defeat death.

Their opportunity came in the reign of Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, 25th King of Númenor and lord of all men. Though the Island remained peaceful, the clouds of darkness had against gathered over Middle Earth after an age of peace. Sauron, chief Lieutenant to the dark lord Morgoth had returned to Mordor and in the fires of Mount Doom, he built an army to conquer the land. So Númenor went to war and against their might Sauron proved no match. He was brought back to the island realm in chains, a prisoner to be mocked and condemned. As time passed however, the poison of Sauron, masquerading as wisdom, began to turn the heart and mind of Ar-Pharazôn away from the light of the Valar and towards the dark of Morgoth. Temples were erected in his honour and blood spilt in his name. Many opposed these developments and retained their loyalty in secret to the Aratar. Sauron, in his fair form, became an advisor to the King and it was from this position that he put forth the impossible solution; an invasion of the Undying Lands and the final victory over death itself.

A fleet was assembled the likes of which mankind had never seen, brought together with the sole purpose of overthrowing heaven. With Ar-Pharazôn at their head, the fleet set out for their attack; many confident of victory but others hesitant of making war against the Valar. When they came upon the white shores of Aman, the resolve of the army wavered for the first time. For some, the line was finally crossed. The twelve ships of Caldor, Lord of Eldalondë and steward of the King, packed with soldiers and families for the campaign to come, could pretend no longer and turned away in rout to the north. No effort was made to follow them, for the King rallied his remaining ships and disembarked on the shores of Aman, committing the ultimate sin. Only now did the deceit of Sauron reveal itself, as Eru himself brought down mountains about the heads of the army, burying them forevermore under coastal mountains. The great island itself sank once more beneath the seas, returning from whence it came as the greatest reward of men's selflessness and courage was revoked for their greed and arrogance.

So fell the Kingdom of Númenor and with it, an age of culture and beauty was lost. The dozen ships of Caldor were now alone in the Great Sea, at the mercy of those they had gone to war against. Caldor himself pleaded with the Valar for forgiveness and the Valar, having no desire to shed more blood than had been spilled already in Sauron's name, permitted them to travel west. No longer was Aman accessible to men, forever lost to those who did not know how to find it, but instead they found a new continent bursting with life which they called Meluinor. In the sheltered Bay of Vigilance, so named for the first ship to land there, Caldor established the city of Minas Luin and the kingdom of Aeanor, fearing that the occupants of his ships were all that remained of Númenor.

He was mistaken, for a few years after the kingdom's founding, a message arrived from the east. Elendil, Lord of Andúnië, had survived the island's fall and formed realms-in-exile in Middle Earth; Gondor and Arnor. Now he made war against the enduring evil of Sauron, who had returned to his lands in Mordor, and called for aid from his western kin. Caldor, fearing what had occurred when last men had engaged the Dark Lord and fearing for his kingdom's survival, refused the call. It was his son, Othion, Prince of Aeanor, who defied his father's wishes and led an army of volunteers to the assistance of Middle Earth. They formed part of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, fighting in the terrible battles at the Black Gate, Dagorlad and on the slopes of Barad-Dur itself. Their triumph came at a terrible cost, Sauron vanquished at the cost of Elendil and the Elven High King Gil-Galad.

Evil was defeated, but not destroyed and so Othion, who had formed a great friendship with Isildur during their campaigns and fallen deeply in love with Middle Earth, declared the Oath of Othion:

 _Be my heirs ever watchful,_

 _Be their blades ever ready._

 _Be their ears ever open,_

 _Be their shields ever steady._

 _May they watch to the east,_

 _Where the dark shadow lies._

 _May they await the day,_

 _When the black banner flies._

 _May they await the call,_

 _From our brothers, our kin._

 _May they answer with horns,_

 _And march against sin._

 _May they hold the line,_

 _Against the oncoming shade._

 _May they strike down the darkness,_

 _And our debt be repaid._

As the centuries passed, so the oath was slowly forgotten, passing from promise to folklore and from folklore to myth. The Kings and Queens of Aeanor turned their gaze to their own land as the Kingdom's power grew, Númenorians mixing with the native peoples and cultures, until Aeanor was the greatest realm in all the west. In these days, the Oath of Othion was no more than a distant memory.

But there were some who remembered.

And the time had come for Aeanor to honour the promise made so long ago.


	2. Chapter 1: Nemireth

A heavy thud rang out as the sword bounced off the raised shield, sending a horrible judder up Nemireth's arm and into her shoulder. Her opponent was too close and she stepped back to widen the gap. Her own blade came around in a counter-sweep but it was slow, muscles protesting as she tried to catch her opponent's blind-side. He evaded with ease, the giant of a man coming back for a fresh attack that was barely parried as she was driven back again. The sounds of battle around them were dull, the clashing of sword against armour and shield alike so close and yet it may as well have been a continent away. Her world was her blade, her shield and her foe. Lessons ran through her mind like water passes over a cliff; keep moving, stay on the initiative. Don't let the fight be dictated to you.

So easy in theory but aching limbs refused such wisdom. Her eyes stung fiercely from sweat and dust but she forced them open, breathing laboured and uneven but still she refused to back down. Let him come. Come he did, weapon over his head as he brought it down hard, intending to crush her with a single, mighty blow. Her shield met it in mid-air but the impact sent it clattering from her grasp, tired fingers unable to hold on any longer. Before she could register what had happened, a fist like a mace struck her chest and sent her sprawling, dust kicking up where she landed on her back. She looked frantically left and right for an escape but there was none, the man casting her in shadow as he stood triumphantly over her. Damn it, if this was going to be it then her final lesson would have some meaning; always go down swinging.

Her strike was like lightning, whole body twisting as she caught him cleanly in the midriff, arms above his head to finish her off. It evidently hurt for he let out a string of curses in Ellayan of which she recognised only a few.

"Enough!"

The single word was enough to bring peace to the arena. The world came back into focus as soldiers stepped away from their adversaries, arms dropping to their sides. Many stooped over, gasping for breath while others worked tired muscles with a weariness that came from repetition. Jumping up off the ground, she glared at the silver-haired man in plate armour who approached, hands behind his back, wooden whistle hanging from his neck and scabbard bouncing at his hip.

"Why have we stopped, Captain?" She asked breathlessly, fixing the officer with a glare. He looked back with brown eyes, entirely unperturbed by her challenge or tone.

"It's approaching midday, your Highness." He answered with a well-practised patience, "And time for the men to get under cover before it gets too hot." He indicated to burning sun high in the cloudless sky.

The cloth beneath her armour was sticking unpleasantly to her skin, thick beads ran over her olive face and brown hair clung to her forehead. She wiped her face, hating how that simple act proved his point, "But Karos, the north will be as hot as Minas Luin correct?"

"Hotter."

"So why should we get under cover now, when we may not be able to when we march into battle further north?" Nemireth crossed her arms, trying to ignore the dull ache in her shoulder.

Karos' answer was quick and diplomatic, "We've been preparing them for the heat and I believe them ready, Princess. However, they've also been drilling since first light without food or drink and I'd rather end this practise than lose half our men to exhaustion before we even begin to march. We'll resume this afternoon once everyone is rested and fed."

She could practically feel the gazes of the assembled men burning into her back. They wanted to get into the shade but with a single word she could shatter all those hopes. They would hate her for it, curse her name, wonder for the millionth time why she was Captain-Commander and not Karos. Because she was the damned Princess Royal, not him!

The debate could have gone until evening and neither would have backed down, but she recognised the look of the elder Officer, the gentle warning that always signalled some unspoken boundary had been crossed. With a weary sigh, she nodded, "Fine."

"Very good. With your leave, Captain-Commander?" A curt nod was his answer, as if the use of her military rank would somehow placate her. Instead she stood alongside him in sullen silence, as he took over the company like he always did.

"King's Guard!" He called at the top of his voice, " _Omáran!_ " He blew a single, long shriek of the whistle.

The Ellayan command had the soldiers formed up in two ranks quickly, standing bolt upright with shields at their sides and hands resting on their scabbards. Each of them looked about as exhausted as she felt but in far better mood with the prospect of lunch so close.

Karos held them longer than they were doubtless expecting, running his trained eye over them for some unknown imperfection before issuing a final command, _"Tafenan!"_ that had them scrambling for the safety of the shade, conversation buzzing amongst them.

Only when they were alone did the Princess ran a hand through her long, brown hair, slimy and slick even through the glove, and swore angrily under her breath.

"Your Highness?" Karos asked as the pair left the training yard together, heading for a nearby drinking fountain, "Is there a problem?"

She simply shrugged her shoulders, unable to avoid the seething annoyance that bubbled just beneath the surface. She played over the spar with Nikos time and time again, trying to find the moment when she had lost. It had been as soon as he stepped past her spear, early in the fight. Once he was close to her, it was only a matter of time before he overwhelmed her. Her only response? To try and tire him out before he could do the same to her. The idiocy of the strategy was particularly galling. Nikos was a veteran soldier, who had more years in the Legion than she had walking the earth but somehow, she was going to tire him out? That was even before she got to the matter of dropping her shield! Even remembering the sound of it bouncing across the ground had her clenching her fists.

"I was sloppy today," She managed to choke out through her frustration, "If that had been a real fight, I was dead."

"You were," The Princess rolled her eyes. Of course that would be the one thing he agreed with her on, "You lost the initiative and allowed him to fight on his terms rather than yours."

She longed to know what her terms were supposed to be. He was taller than her, stronger than her, faster than her and more experienced than her. At what skill was she supposed to outmatch him? She could have challenged him to a sewing contest perhaps, hoping that he was somehow not a master of that as well. Maybe a kiss would have thrown him.

"Even with that," Karos continued as she cupped her hands in the cool water and threw it over her face. The feeling was divine, a morning of grime simply melting away and draining into the pool over which she leant. If only her memories of such a shambolic fight could go with it, "You worked Nikos harder than he has been worked in a while. Normally he wouldn't break a sweat but there was a nice shine to him today."

"I was basically running away from him."

"You were, but you did it much better than most manage. It is academic anyway, Your Highness. You will not need to stand in the frontlines."

The next splash of water on her face was a bit harder than the first, bitterness biting through her at his words. Even though she was Captain-Commander of the most elite formation in Aeanor, even though she had been training to be a soldier her entire life, she would never get within a thousand leagues of a real battle. She would stand like a good girl and watch as the professionals did their job. Her job.

Karos knew exactly how she felt on the matter so quickly changed topic, "With luck, we will be marching next week. Once the 11th Legion joins us from Ice Anvil."

She looked up at the taller Aeanoran, biting her lip in worry, "We're sending two legions to the Dunelands? Are things so dire?"

"The Hill Tribe raids are increasing in frequency and strength. We've already had to abandon some areas to them and if we don't make a stand soon, we could lose the entire Dunelands."

She looked out over the sapphire roofs of the city and beyond to where the waters of the Bay of Vigilance glimmered in the sun, frowning as if it were somehow the sea's fault for what had happened. "My father should have sent forces years ago. He should have acted when he could, not when he had to. He hesitated, like he always does."

Karos had no answer to that as they were interrupted by a rustling of clothes and the bouncing of boots on smooth stone. A courtier appeared, seemingly out of thin air, breathing hard.

"Princess Nemireth," He nearly bowed double, "My apologies, your Highness, but his Majesty requests your presence immediately."

Of course, he did. Sometimes it was like the King had her followed at all times, ready to pounce when it was of maximum inconvenience. With a dirty look to the undeserving messenger, she turned away from the sea and back onto the high towers of the royal palace. "Did he say what for?"

"He did not, Your Highness."

"I'm sure it will be endlessly thrilling, whatever it is." She met Karos' eyes and saw the wordless rebuke that was probably deserved there. That was rewarded with another shrug. Karos was only a Captain, he wouldn't get it, "Don't start training again until I get back."

"I wouldn't dare, your Highness."


	3. Chapter 2: An Unexpected Visit

The young Princess may have been annoyed with Karos for stopping the training session but really, the darkness of the Sapphire Palace was a blissful change from the suffocating heat of an Aeanoran summer's day. Light poured in, carrying the noise of a busy city beyond to compete with the din of a bustling household. Servants darted here and there, fixed on the thousand thousand tasks that always needed done. Watching over them were the soldiers of the King's Guard, standing as if statues with spears in hand and shields ready. The only movement was as she passed, each bowing their heads in a way that had their tall, horsehair crests dipping forward. In the same way, the busy attendants, maidens and waiters parted so the path was clear through the halls that had been home her entire life.

Beyond the windows, were brief glimpses of the Minas Luin that she never got to see, tall sandstone buildings with shining blue roofs that caught the sun so they seemed to be made of sapphire while beyond sat the Bay of Vigilance. It was market day and even over the noise the cutting calls of sellers and buyers reached her ears. Oh, how Nemireth had long wanted to visit the market, to see the wares from across the kingdom with her own eyes; the tall grasses from the Emerald Plains that smelled like honey and burned with a green smoke, the snowy foxes from Ice Anvil that made the most adorable chirping noises, the exquisite carvings from the nomadic herdsman of the Dunelands. The Sapphire Palace towered over it all, a fortress that was nigh impregnable but at times it was hard not to feel that the opposite was true; that the thick walls and tall towers were as much as a barrier to keep real life away. Here, it was hard to tell that the Dunelands were all but overrun, that the Sea Peoples roamed the coast freely, raiding at will, that even orcs had started to appear in numbers again to the west. In Minas Luin, nothing ever changed, and no news was good news.

"Well, well, I recognised that stomping anywhere."

Her thoughts were interrupted by the familiar, teasing voice as Xiphos matched her strides. He was short for a soldier, around her height, with the long dark hair, sun-kissed skin and jovial brown eyes that were so common amongst those of Ellayan descent. She rolled her eyes at his broad, teasing grin.

"I do not stomp, Captain," She protested without venom.

"Oh of course, for Princess Nemireth's steps are so soft that they leave even the driest twig whole," He nodded fervently, "Nemireth Featherfoot they call her. What has called her from the training grounds, I wonder?"

She chuckled before getting herself under control, the sound bouncing off high walls, "My father has summoned me."

"Ah yes, I thought he might."

"You did?" Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, more so of the knowing smirk that crossed his face, "Why has he called for me?"

"Oh, I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise."

"I hate surprises," That was not really true. It was more the insufferable smugness that radiated from him that she hated. "If I order you to tell me, will you?"

He took a deep breath, "Oh, to choose between my King and my Commander! Do I obey the oath I took to the Blue City or do I fall under the charms of Captain-Commander Nemireth, who they say is the fairest maiden in all the kingdom?"

The cheek! She punched him on the arm, which brought a bark of laughter from the soldier, but the damage was done, and the colour rushing to her cheeks fuelled even more mirth on his part.

"Unfortunately, duty triumphs over beauty this day." He bowed his head, "and I will return to those duties, Your Highness. I will listen on the wind for when the surprise is revealed." With that final, infuriatingly enigmatic goodbye, he ducked into one of the many side halls.

The vast iron-studded doors of the throne room were thrown open wordlessly by the guards who were stationed before them and then I was in the greatest room in all Meluinor. It was lined with thick pillars of lapis lazuli, catching the sun so they resembled glowing columns of sunlight. The very floor beneath her feet was intricately detailed with scenes of Aeanor's history that had been drilled into her head all her entire life. Entire periods of history boiled down to a single phrase; the Sundering, the Clemency, the Founding, the Darkest Night and the Covenant, stories that had captivated hers into the depths of night, each one as vivid and real as if she had been there herself.

At the end of the chamber was a marble dais on which sat the throne. It was flanked by two great monuments clad in armour and whose helmeted crests brushed the red oak ceiling. The one to the left bore a flowing beard with a sceptre in one hand and a scroll in the other. He was Caldor, Lord of Eldalondë, Captain of the Western Exiles, the Old Stag, First King of Aeanor and Chief of the Ellayan. To his right was a figure who been a hero to her as a child until she realised his significance, when his presence had begun to haunt her every step. His beard was neatly trimmed, eyes blazing even when captured in stone, a long sword gripped in one armoured gauntlet while the other bore a shield of Númenor. This was Othion. The Anchor. The Young Stag. The Vanquisher. The Warden of the Blue City. The Oathmaker. The Great. Second King of Aeanor and her kin.

Standing between them on the dais were two figures in deep conversation; one was her father, Brúndir III, forty second king of Aeanor, hunched over as he often was these days. The other was taller, thin but shrouded in grey travelling robes with long flat grey hair exposed by the tucking of his pointy hat under his armpit, gnarled staff in a wrinkled hand.

"Gandalf!" Any lingering resentment evaporated as she bound up to the Wizard and threw her arms around him. His robes were rough to the touch and the smell of the salty sea and aromatic pipe-weed were comfortingly familiar.

"Ho ho! My dear Princess, you must allow me to breath!" He chuckled as he worked to extract himself from her grasp. Only then did she realise that she must absolutely reek from training in the sun and so readily backed away, colour creeping into her cheeks again. He ran those intelligent eyes over her while she stood with her hands at her side. It was hard not to feel like he was being subjected to some kind of unspoken test, "My goodness, look how you've grown. What has it been since last, I was here? Seven years?"

"Eight," Her response was immediate as she tried to contain her giddiness. It was hard not to be thrilled by his return, remembering the fireworks of her thirteenth birthday which had lit up the night sky as if the sun were out. She remembered his husky laugh as the children had chased his fairy lights and being enraptured by his stories; tales of orcs and dragons, trolls and kings. Most of all, she remembered how palace life had seemed just a little duller when he had gone, the mundanity creeping back in his place. "Do you remember? I set fire to your hat."

"My dear, how could I possibly forget? A more grievous sin cannot be visited upon a wizard than to scorch his hat." His expression was serious and her smile slipped. Was he angry about it? He hadn't been at the time, merely laughing it off and it had been an accident. Sort of. A time when she had more energy than sense. She was about to apologise when his expression cracked into a chortle and she giggled in return, in relief more than anything.

"Oh," He began to rummage around in his robes, "Before I forget, I have something for you."

"You do?" She leant in. He had brought something for her each time he had visited, the first when she was a mere child, the second just after her birthday but she not expected anything on his third visit, but now she was intrigued. It felt very much like the morning of _Iméron_ , the mid-winter festival but even then she was too old for gifts. Mostly.

After much searching, he pulled out a flower. It had been pressed but that did not detract from its beauty. It was the deepest shade of midnight blue but the way it caught the light made it seem as though it had captured the essence of the moon itself, crowned with a white bud like a bulging diamond and speckled with yellow seeds, "It is a flower of the _Elenuial_ , picked from the gardens of Lorien with the permission of the Lady Galadriel herself." He said.

"Oh, Gandalf," She cupped it in her hands as if it might shatter with any sudden movement. It felt like silk against her palms and, most importantly, it had come all the way from Middle Earth! From the garden of the Lady of Light herself! Had she been there when it was picked? Had she picked it herself? The very possibility that Lady Galadriel had touched this same flower had the Princess' fingers tingling. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen and yet it was probably no more than a weed to an elf, "It's wonderful. Thank you!"

The King cleared his throat, drawing our attention. Beside Gandalf, he could not help but appear unimpressive; he was not old and might even have been dashing in his youth, but he had aged beyond his years with a gait that suggested he was always carrying a large weight. Even his voice was thin next to the baritone of the Wizard, "I'm sure you did not cross the sea to gift my daughter a flower. What ill-tidings do you bring?"

Gandalf was suddenly serious, "I apologise, Your Highness but the news I bring is dire indeed. It is with regret that I must inform you that the Dark Lord has once again returned to Middle Earth."

All they could do was stare at him and the silence stretched out torturously. She searched his eyes for any sign of mischief, a joke perhaps on his part if in bad taste but there was only sorrow in his features. A heavy shiver ran through her, as if a chilling winter wind had swept through the hall.

Brúndir coughed, "It's not possible," he declared with a confidence that he did not show, "The Dark Lord was struck down by Isildur an age ago. His power was broken that day. He cannot return."

Gandalf was leaning on his staff, "I wish that it were so, Your Highness, I truly do, but we can no longer ignore the evidence. Some years ago, the White Council chased a Necromancer out of the fortress of Dol Guldur. The spirit fled east to Mordor where Barad Dur has since been rebuild and the borders of that land manned once again. Orcs have become a common sight from the Lonely Mountain in the north to Ithilien in the south and they have a boldness we have not seen since the dark days. It is the only conclusion we can draw, Sauron has indeed returned."

She knew the stories of the Second Age, the dark times when Númenor had been lost and Sauron had held dominion over much of Middle Earth. Many a candle had been burned to a stump as she had read of such terrible times and nearly wept at the misery suffered by so many. If the Dark Lord had regained so much as a tenth of his power then he needed to be stopped. The armies of the free peoples would march again; flocking to the banners of their heroes; the great kings and warriors of Middle Earth that would see him defeated. Her gaze was drawn up to Othion, as if tugged by some invisible force. Had he felt the same?

"You come to us for aid." She said quietly.

"Nemireth!" Her father barked, glaring at the wizard with unfriendly eyes, "So that is it. You have come across the sea seeking our help against Middle Earth's enemies?"

"Sauron is not just an enemy of Middle Earth, Your Highness." Gandalf drew himself up, "He is an enemy of all those who love freedom and peace. Many years ago, your ancestor swore an oath that should the Dark Lord ever return, Aeanor would be ready. That time has now come."

"Gandalf," The King sounded tired now, his will leaving him as surely as the tide retreated from the shore, "Aeanor faces threats on all sides. The Hill Tribes are gathering to the north. The sea peoples raid and pillage the coast almost at will and have you forgotten that we too have orcs menacing our western borders? Where was Middle Earth's aid when we were in need? When the Reaper King tore through North Sarador, did Gondor or Rohan send armies to aid us? When the ice drake of the Forge wrought death and destruction in the south, was it elven arrows that felled the beast? Do you expect me to forsake my duty to protect my realm and send forces to those happy to ignore us in our own time of need?"

"Your kin have ever been bound by Othion's Oath," The Wizard was insistent, voice sharp, "And such oaths taken before the Valar are not so easily forsaken. Your kingdom carries the blood of Númenor and so the hatred of Sauron. If Middle Earth falls under his dominion, how long do you believe a sea and your fleet can protect you from his wrath?"

Nemireth's eyes flicked back and forth between the two as they argued, hardly daring to believe that her father was being so stubborn. Did he not realise that Sauron had returned! The same Sauron who had seen Númenor sink beneath the waves, who had scattered their people to two different continents, who had forged the Ring of Power and sought to conquer all of Middle Earth with it? He was a direr threat to Aeanor than all the Hill Tribes, Sea Peoples and orcs of Meluinor together. What about that did the King not understand?

"Your Majesty," She urged, "With Sauron back, we have a duty to help. We must send aid!"

"We have our own matters to attend to, Nemireth," He looked to his daughter, Gandalf forgotten, "We cannot afford to lose a single soldier to a war that does not concern us."

"And when will it concern us, your Majesty? Is it when Sauron's hordes have reached the western coast of Middle Earth? Is it when his fleets and war machines are landing on our shores? Are we to arrange the drapes in our castle while a wildfire rages just beyond the gates?"

His expression turned grim, like it always did when her opinion was unwelcome, but his shoulders slumped, "Very well. I will send a company of archers, as much support as can be spared."

Gandalf inhaled sharply but she got in before him, eyes locked with his in disbelief, "A company of archers? That's it?" Her voice quivered with anger.

"That is all we can afford to spare."

"It is an insult, my Lord! To our allies, to Gandalf and to me! When Othion made his oath is this what he had in mind? Did he imagine that his heirs would honour his words with a mere company of archers?"

"Then what would you propose we send? Have you a better suggestion that does not leave our defences exposed?"

As she thought about it, an idea formed. An idea that was so natural that she cursed herself for not thinking of it sooner, "Send the King's Guard. Send me."

The King fixed her with a hard look, lips pressed tightly together, "Out of the question."

"But why? The Guard is already in the city and ready to march. Other Legions can follow us when they can. You don't need to summon another unit from the frontier or insult our allies with a meagre contribution. What better way to show our commitment to our oath than by sending the best soldiers in the army?" And his daughter and heir but she felt it best not to say that.

Brúndir took time to consider but she could see how he hesitated. As much as she wanted to go, a part of her longed for him to stand his ground, to make his point, for once in his life to have a backbone but already she knew what was going to happen. It had happened time and time again, the firm decisiveness would give way to niggling doubt. All the while, his expression softened, robbing him of what little authority he possessed, and she sighed to herself. Just once, she wanted him to act like the King he was supposed to be. He nodded once.

Those grim feelings gave way to excitement as Nemireth barely kept from leaping in the air, "Thank you, Your Highness! I will oversee the preparations!" She resisted the urge to skip as she bowed and headed for the door, mind racing.

She was going to Middle Earth!


	4. Chapter 3: Preparations

It took some effort to keep from skipping on her way back, all thoughts of returning to the training grounds forgotten in her excitement. The only time she stopped was to order one of the guards to summon her captains to the war room. She was easily the first there, striding into the wide, open room whose space was dominated entirely by a massive map. It was an elaborate piece of three-dimensional design, lovingly carved by artists off the backs of countless cartographers from generations past. Minas Luin was marked on the easternmost coast in a neat, elaborate script beside the Bay of Vigilance with the realm stretching out north, south and west, from the snow-capped mountains of the south to the vast oceans of sand in the north. Many settlements and cities were marked, linked by little roads and bridges that may or may not have existed only in the mind of the artist who had drawn them.

As brown eyes scanned the entirety of the realm, she felt the familiar and always unwelcome butterflies rise up in her stomach. One day, everything she saw here would be her responsibility. It all looked so peaceful on the table, so quiet yet the map did not show the hordes of orcs beyond the Great River that marked the western boundary of the kingdom, nor did it show the ships of the Sea Peoples who stalked the coasts, unchecked by an overstretched navy. It had been so long since Aeanor had had a strong ruler. How could she change that? What did she need to do to be better than those before her? She shook her head and sighed, wondering just what the secret ingredient was to leadership.

Her thoughts were disturbed as the door opened and the captains of the four companies that made up the King's Guard entered. There was Karos of course, Xiphos flicking his eyes from the map to his commander and then Samar and Krespin; the stereotypically grizzled, seasoned officers that filled Aenor's army. All were silent, waiting for her to explain why they had been summoned.

"My Lords," She nodded to them, "As you may already be aware, Gandalf the Wise has graced us with his presence and he brings dire news. It appears that Sauron has returned to Middle Earth."

Their reaction was not quite as she expected. No gasps, no looks of horror or curses. Rather they continued to stare at her blankly, as if she had just announced that the guard rota had been updated. In fact, she was sure they would have reacted more strongly to that than to the news of the Age.

"So," She continued, trying to keep herself as solumn as the news warranted, "The King has agreed with me that this is the gravest threat to our Kingdom and he has reacted accordingly. As soon as possible, the King's Guard is to depart for Middle Earth, the advanced guard of an army to follow us."

That got a reaction. Each of the Captains looked to one another with sighs, brows furrowing. Xiphos pursed his lips and shook his head, "Well, I was never a fan of sand." He said but he was not smiling. Karos was staring at her, unblinking. The Princess instead looked down at the map.

"So, inform the men and prepare for travel by sea. Captain Xiphos, speak with the Master of Ships, see that the _Vigilance_ is ready to depart at first light."

He exhaled sharply, "Of course, Your Highness."

"Very good," She bowed her head, "That is all, My Lords."

Three of the Captains went to leave, armour and weapons chinking with their movements. Karos stayed where he was.

"Your Highness," He said, both palms pressing into the table, "May I speak to you? Alone."

She hesitated. She had never seen him like this before, a real anger burning in his features, but she would not show weakness in front of the others. She straightened up, hands behind her back as she puffed her chest out and tried to look like the officer she was, "Very well, Captain Karos. Go ahead."

Karos looked back over his shoulder, meeting the eyes of each captain as they left and closed the door behind them, some unspoken thoughts passing between them. That annoyed her, the feeling of exclusion, her captains together as one unit and then her, isolated.

She expected him to shout but, the forced calm that came was worse, "The King's Guard was supposed to go north, with the 11th Legion." 

"It was," She was standing up and he was leaning over but he was taller than her, more imposing. She felt like a child in front of him, "But the 11th can still match without us."

"The 11th is understrength already. Are they to reinforce the entire Dunelands themselves?"

"But Karos," She was growing increasingly irritated, both at him making an issue of this and talking down to her like some snivelling recruit, "The border is heavily fortified, the Hill Tribes are only raiding, not outright invading and there are plenty of soldiers there. If the King's Guard was going to go north, we'd just be sitting around. It's a waste of the army's best when we can be doing so much more."

"That is besides the point!" He snapped, rising to his full height, towering over her. The Princess took a half step back, eyes wide. He never snapped at her, "We are holding the Dunelands by a thread. Now, maybe you're right; maybe the King's Guard on our own are not enough to settle the matter but that was never why we were going. Our reputation precedes us. Send the King's Guard into a region and people take note, both our own and our enemies. Is the King with us? Has he brought an army? Is there an army coming? Those questions would have kept the Hill Tribes busy for months, maybe even years, until there was a force there strong enough to oppose them. Instead, what they will see is a half-strength Legion arrive and they will know how thinly stretched we are. Far from cowering them, it will embolden them. It might not be an invasion now, Your Highness, but when they see what we send to stop them, then it could become one."

Nemireth had not thought of it like that. Her response was a stutter as she tried to find some retort that did not make her sound like a fool, but the anger was building all the same. She was the Princess Royal! Who was he to lecture her as if she were some spoilt child? When she answered, it was louder than she intended, "But Karos, Sauron is in Middle Earth! The Dark Lord himself is back! We have to stop him! How can't you see that?"

He snorted, "I'll tell you what I can't see, Your Highness. I can't see Sauron. I can't see a fiery mountain, a Dark Lord or the end of the world. What can I see? I can see an exposed frontier. I can see an army stretched to breaking point. I can see good men, good ships, good supplies being taken from the land they swore to protect and sent across an endless sea to an unknown world, fighting to defend peoples we have not seen, heard from or dealt with in generations. Most of all, I can see a Princess with her eyes on the horizon, ignoring what's happening right in front of her face."

That was it. The welling bubble burst within her, "Enough!" She shouted, slamming her first painfully into the map, which only made things worse, "You forget yourself, Captain! I am the Princess Royal! I am the Captain-Commander of the King's Guard and I have ordered that we go to Middle Earth! Are you going to disobey my orders?"

"You _are_ my Captain, Your Highness," Karos showed no reaction to the output which annoyed Nemireth even more, "I will obey your commands. If you have ordered us to Middle Earth, then it is to Middle Earth we shall go. I have made my objections clear."

"Yes," She was shaking, "Yes, I think you have. Now, get out!"

She watched as he left, a paragon of calm while she was breathing like she had just run a league. Her hatred was as intense as a roaring fire but as soon as the door shut behind him with a click she felt it rushing out of her, leaving her hollow as she looked down at the map. The Dunelands were easy to find, a vast expanse of undulating hills and shallow valleys dotted with small settlements and forts here and there. The Princess had no idea how long she just stood and looked, taking in every detail. It was a long border, even on a map but they had told her the defences there were as extensive as any outside the capital. Was that true? Had they just told her that because it was what she wanted to hear? Were things as bad as Karos seemed to think? She shook her head and looked to the heavens, hoping against hope that someone would give her a sign of what she should do. What was the right answer? How did she find it? How did she know what it was?

With a deep sigh to contain her growing embarrassment, Nemireth went to see to the departure arrangements.

That dark mood hung over her like a cloud for the rest of the day, not helped when she met with the Master of Ships. A morose and overweight man for whom the sudden, immense job thrust into his pudgy hands had not improved his demeanour. There was a surly promise that he would have the _Vigilance_ , the flagship of the Aeanoran fleet, ready to sail in the morning, albeit not before he made it clear how great a challenge and an inconvenience it would be for him. Things were no better back on the training ground where she spent her afternoon and evening. If Nemireth had hoped to leave her troubles, then she was sorely mistaken as the men were far from happy. Word had evidently passed around and the soldiers whispered and murmured to one another behind her back, which she did her best to ignore. The temptation was to confront them but Karos' sharp words still burned in her memory and she dared not make herself look foolish in front of them as well.

As soon as the sun had dipped over the horizon, training was finished, much to her relief. She cleaned up and attended the feast thrown by the King in honour of Gandalf's arrival, a courtesy enforced by protocol than by any personal desire. Never one for such occasions, she sat wordlessly, trying not to think of what her troops would be saying in the privacy of their barracks both of their situation and her, skipping out as soon as it was polite to do so and returned to her chambers to pack with the help of her handmaidens.

The Princess-Royal's quarters took up two floors at the top of the east tower and it was only now that she sought to pack that Nemireth released just how much clutter she had gathered over the years. The Master of Ships had made it abundantly clear that space for cargo was limited if she planned on bringing any men along, so she was reduced to a single trunk. The Princess should not have even needed that; her armour, a few simple dresses and a couple of personal affects were all she wanted to bring but each time she returned she found the trunk filled to the brim with things Ayla, Daia or Saer had added. Amongst them were elaborate gowns she hadn't worn in years, books she had forgotten the titles of and instruments she had not inflicted her presence upon since their purchase. Much worse was the jewellery they added, gifts from hopeful suitors as far back as she could remember. Nemireth had wanted none of it but her father refused to hand it back, wielding protocol like real men wielded battle-axes so it had all gathered dust in one corner of her room. Now, her handmaidens kept trying to sneak in one piece or another under her nose.

"For the last time, I'm going to war," She looked around all three of them in exasperation as she held up a golden necklace with a pearl inset, "Not to a harvest festival dance."

"Of course, your Majesty," Ayla cooed as she scooped up a dress already tossed carelessly aside, carefully folding the fine material, "But you never know what might happen in Middle Earth."

"Hopefully things aren't so dire that I'll need this against the orcs," She retrieved a violin, "Is this even mine?"

"This could be your greatest weapon, Your Highness," Daia was stacking books that I had left in a pile on the floor, "If you play it for them, surely you would put their whole army to flight!"

She laughed at the young handmaiden's cheeky expression, "You know, I just might." She sighed as she took a book on the Jade Plateau out from the bottom of her trunk and threw it onto her bed. Beneath it was a silvery dress, figure hugging and open at the shoulders. It was beautiful, she had to admit and she found herself weakening as all three attendants watched her carefully, "If I bring this one, will you promise to stop adding more?"

"On our hearts, Your Majesty," Saer was standing on her tiptoes to add another reject to her wardrobe, "And it's such a lovely dress! It really accentuates those hips and shoulders of yours. Why else would you spend so long working yourself to the bone if not to show them off?"

"You know," Ayla whispered scandalously, "I hear tales of a great many dashing princes and warriors in Middle Earth, men whose honour and kindness is matched only by the emptiness in their hearts, just waiting for a fair maiden to come along and sweep them away."

"By the Valar," Daia shook her head, "I should go myself."

"Bah," Saer snorted, "You can have your princes and warriors. It's the elves I want to see. Those long golden locks, quoting poetry and singing songs of beautiful maidens," She sighed wistfully.

"None of you are helping." Nemireth glared as she placed the dress into the trunk carefully as they broke out in giggles behind her back, "Okay, dress packed. Happy?"

"Very," Ayla nodded, "Now if only we could do something for your hair." A pause, "Speaking of hair, can we do anything for you, My Lord? We have a great many salves and creams that would bring such volume to your mane."

A deep voice blustered, barely heard over further giggles and laughter from her maidens. Glancing over her shoulder, the Princess saw Gandalf had been surrounded by all three of them, regarding his long grey hair and beard with great curiosity while he attempted to fend them off. Nemireth cleared her throat and nodded to the door. The girls took the hint and left with theatrical whispers and scandalised laughter as they closed it behind them with a snap.

Gandalf, now freed of their attention, picked up the book resting on her bed, "Ah, the Jade Plateau. You know, I have never seen it with my own eyes? I hear it's quite beautiful."

"You're not missing much," Nemireth rested against the wooden box, "It's flat, it's green and it's full of plants. You're not at the feast in your honour?"

"Oh, I was but it was all rather awkward," He made a face, "So I took my leave. We will have an early start tomorrow, if Captain Karos was correct."

She inhaled at the mention of his name, instead looking at her feet, "You're returning with us?"

"I am, I hope for a quick journey."

"You know, the Master of Ships told me we should have a very favourable wind for the trip, practically unheard of for this time of year. Quite a fortunate coincidence for us."

"Oh yes," His expression was entirely deadpan. "Very fortunate."

She chortled at his response and strode out onto the open balcony, the strong smell of the sea comfortingly familiar and the warmth of a late Aeanoran summer surrounding her. The city was as quiet as it would ever get, more of a gentle murmur than the deafening roar it was during the day. The moon shone down over the calm waters of the harbour, catching the walls of _Cúronost_ and _Anorost_ , the twin fortresses that watched the bay and making them gleam. Beyond that, the endless waves of the Great Sea.

"It always seemed so far away," The words were under her breath, but Gandalf joined her, smelling as he always did of pipe-weed despite his time amongst the heavily perfumed nobles of Minas Luin. It made her smile; Gandalf was who he was, and nothing would change that. He gave a questioning murmur, so she pressed on.

"It always seemed so far away, Middle Earth. A land of dreams and fantasy that stay forever in my dreams. Do you remember the story you told me on your first visit? About the War of the Last Alliance?"

"I do," He nodded, "It's an old tale."

"I used to stand on this balcony and dream of being there. I imagined standing before the armies of Sauron, knowing that to flee was to abandon the world to his tyranny. I imagined standing beside Elendil the King of Númenor, the Lord of men, Isildur, the warrior-prince who ended evil for an age with a single blow. Gil-Galad, Lord of the High Elves, the fairest and wisest of their rulers and Othion, the Prince who defied a Kingdom and brought an army across the sea by his sheer will. I dreamt of facing down Sauron, of besting him in combat alongside such mighty company, such legends. I never thought I would get the chance to do so."

"Well," Gandalf cleared his throat, "An Age has passed since those days. Things are not as they were."

Nemireth tutted and rolled her eyes, "I'm not a fool. I know things will be different to how I imagine but some things simply cannot be. The free peoples of Middle Earth will march together into war; just as they did in the First Age against Morgoth, just as they did in the Second against Sauron. So they shall in the Third with Aeanor at their side. Not Othion's volunteers this time either but the best we have, because we know how important this battle is."

He smiled warmly, brows crinkling, "I never doubted you knew the importance of the fight to come, for it will be a fight." He exhaled softly, muttering something she did not catch, "And only with the strength of all those we call friends shall we triumph but take heed of the tales of old. All can be pretty in song and speech. Now, if you will excuse me, I must get some rest before tomorrow. The sea is terribly rough, and I've never gained much enjoyment from it."

"No?" She frowned, puzzled, as he headed for the door, his stride long and confident, "Then why did you keep coming back?"

"Ah," His eyes twinkled as he pulled open the door, "We can never let a little discomfort keep us from doing what we must, can we? Good night, Your Highness. I shall speak with you tomorrow."

And with that, he was gone, leaving her to curse the cryptic words of wizards.


	5. Chapter 4: Arrival

Though he was a dour man, the Master of Ships was very good at his job. Just as he had promised, the _Vigilance_ was ready to depart by the following morning, her sails catching the strong tail wind as she lifted her anchor and departed the bay which carried her name. Once past the Twins, they were joined by a further eight ships of the King's fleet, smaller escorts to see the Princess across to Middle Earth. Their progress eastward was brisk if not exactly smooth. The _Vigilance_ was a broad ship but even she rocked as her sails billowed while white-capped waves lurched her from side to side.

Nemireth was used to the motion, the legacy of countless summers of her childhood spent at White Wave Island, home of the summer palace. The journeys then had been so bad that the young Princess had clung to her maid below decks for all she was worth, convinced that she would be thrown from the ship with each breaker that beat upon the hull. As she'd grown, so she had come to love the sway and how the world tilted from one side to the other constantly and learned to travel as naturally as the sailors who clambered over the rigging.

Many of those who accompanied them were not so lucky. For most, this was their first time at sea and they were not faring well. It was causing the sailors no end of amusement to have so many charging up from the lower decks and leaning over the sides, bodies sagging as they endured their torment. Beneath decks it was so bad that Nemireth was sure they would rather have stormed the beaches of Middle Earth with Sauron himself awaiting them than spend another minute at sea. When she passed, they threw insolent glares and accusing grimaces after her, as if it was somehow her fault. For her part, the Princess tried to ignore her plummeting popularity, instead enjoying the salty surf that whipped across her face and the wind that tossed her hair, each league a milestone in her growing excitement as their destination came closer.

Increasingly, she spent more time with her horse than she did with her men. Alagos was enjoying the journey no more than them but the walks settled him, even if they were only a few steps in each direction. She held his reins and whispered in upturned ears, grooming his coat or feeding him his favourite oats, reflecting that he was far better company than anyone on the ship, Gandalf included. He had kept to himself, spending much of his time on the deck staring out over the bow as if he could see Middle Earth beyond the horizon. Her few attempts to speak with him had earned her monosyllabic answers and that small smile but no sooner was she gone than he would lapse back into concentration, puffing on his pipe as if the elixir of life itself was trapped within.

For the first few days, the ship was tense. Though surrounded by a fleet flying the flag of the King, the crews were always ready for battle and were constantly scanning the horizon for signs of trouble. Only after the first week did the Captain relax, informing his passengers that they were safe. Not that many seemed to take comfort from his words. Certainly, the voyage was no smoother even if the Captain was thrilled with their speed.

At dawn of the fourteenth day, Nemireth was strolling around the deck, the novelty having long worn off even for her, when a call went up from crow's nest. The Captain snatched up his spyglass and peered at the mast of the _Great Stag_ , the lead vessel, which was flying several flags from her main mast. She could not see them from so far away but the Ellayan man lowered his glass and chortled. "Land spotted, Your Highness," He answered her unspoken question, "We should be in port before the day is out."

As the hours passed so the land slowly came into view. Nemireth had taken to spending all her time at the bow of the ship, eagerly awaiting her first sight of Middle Earth. At last, out of the haze of the afternoon emerged imposing cliffs being pounded by great waves, roaring like dragons as they beat against the rock. By late afternoon, they finally laid eyes upon their destination.

The Grey Havens! Her breath was taken away as the _Vigilance_ passed under the twin towers that guarded the entrance to the greatest harbour of the elves. She had often imagined them and yet Gandalf's stories had failed to truly do them justice. The inlet beyond was impossibly smooth after the choppiness of the approach, like passing across glass more than water while the city rose up around them all sides. Marble towers and domes were interwoven with vines and trees, so it appeared that it simply sprung up out of the forest, as natural as the cliffs themselves. Her eyes flicked from one sight to another, lips parted in awe at the beauty before her. It made Minas Luin look so blocky, so ugly in comparison, as if the builders hadn't truly cared about their creation as the elves had done. Only a few ships were anchored in the bay but she could easily imagine hundreds of ships here, from Númenor, from elsewhere in Middle Earth, maybe even from the Undying Lands themselves!

" _Mithlond_ , the Elves call it," Gandalf now stood alongside her, dressed in his thick travelling robe once again, "Once the greatest realm west of the Misty Mountains. Now, it is the gateway for those elves departing west."

"Departing?" She looked at him, frowning, yet pleased he had deigned to speak once more, "The Elves are leaving Middle Earth?"

"Their time is ending," He nodded, "The call from across the sea now tugs at their hearts. Most will sail for Valinor to live out the world in the Undying Lands."

"So, they're abandoning Middle Earth?"

"I assure you, my dear, the elves will play their part in what is to pass."

Though a large ship, the Captain was a skilled sailor and she easily glided up to the largest dock available, ropes being tossed to waiting dockhands who secured her in place while the deck became a hive of activity as the crew roused their passengers. As the gangplank was set in place, Gandalf gestured, bowing to Nemireth and pointing with his staff. He wanted her to go first. The Princess looked to him, unsure if he was giving her the honour of stepping onto land first or if there was something she was missing. When she hesitated, he rolled his eyes and knocked his staff on the deck impatiently, "Come on, my dear. Sauron will be on the dock before you at this rate!"

Taking a breath to steady herself, Nemireth straightened up and stepped across the gang-plank, trying to keep her excitement and fear in check. She should have been thinking of how she was the first Aeanoran to walk on Middle Earth since the days of her ancestors but all she was praying was not to slip and fall into the water before the watching elves and Gandalf. He followed her with much less caution and approached the welcome party which had gathered, at whose head was a tall and noble-bearing elf with silver hair and, most curiously of all, a beard.

"Hail, Círdan," The Wizard declared, "Lord of the Grey Havens. May I introduce Nemireth, Daughter of Aredhel, Princess-Royal of Aeanor and many other titles which we have no time to recall."

Nemireth looked back at him, eyes narrowed and lips pursed at the casual dismissal of her formal name. She knew she should have gotten Xiphos to do it, but he was still on the ship, trying to rouse his soldiers. Círdan bowed deeply to her, which swept away any annoyance with a tingling excitement. The Lord of the Grey Havens was bowing to her!

"Welcome to Middle Earth, Your Highness." He said in a smooth voice, "The Grey Havens are honoured to have the flag of Aeanor fly in our city once again."

"Thank you, my Lord." Nemireth had to keep her voice from shaking. She had never been so nervous before but looking into those intense, ancient eyes she could not help but feel insignificant, a mere speck in time to so mighty an elf-lord, "We are greatly honoured to stand in Middle Earth once ag-", she was interrupted by a crash from behind. She twisted to see one of her soldiers all but rolling off the gangplank, staggering to the edge of the dock and promptly being sick over the side into those flawless waters. Her cheeks coloured, greeting dying on her tongue.

In the silence that followed, Gandalf cleared his throat, "Come now, for time is not our ally and there is much to be done. Lord Círdan, I must speak with you on urgent matters."

Círdan bowed his head and indicated that the Wizard should follow him. Nemireth looked between the two of them, confused, "Gandalf, should I not be party to these talks?"

"You will be, in time." He looked at her, standing over her with a bearing that left no room for argument, "But for now, it is best that you focus on your men. I will return shortly."

Without giving her so much as a second to retort, he spun and strode away, side by side with the Elf-Lord. Nemireth tried to hide her annoyance at the slight and turn her attention to the matter of disembarking her force.

It was not much of a force, in truth. Despite her protests, much of the space had been given up to quartermasters, scribes, farriers, blacksmiths and all manner of people who be of little use in fighting Sauron. Even those soldiers who had come were in poor shape, pale-faced and weak after so long at sea. Their horses were no better and Nemireth bit her lip to see such sorry creatures being led down the gangplank, swelling with pity at their condition.

"They'll be fine, Your Highness," Xiphos joined her, his cheeks devoid of colour and long hair stiffened by salt-water but otherwise as cheerful as always, "We just need to let them bulk up and get their strength back."

"Who? The men or the horses?" She remarked dryly as the first men slumped off the boat, dressed in simple robes without armour, shields or weapons. They were a far cry from the King's Guards who had departed from Minas Luin a fortnight ago. They gathered in groups on the dock, marshalled and chided by officers and quarter-masters alike.

"They've held up better than I expected," Her Captain said with a little hum, "It's a long way to go by boat."

"And we brought only a hundred," She sighed, shaking her head, "At this rate, it will take the rest of the Age for the Legion to get here."

"Such are the trials of logistics. But we had no idea how things would be here, if we needed to bring our own food, our own coin, our own metal. Better to have quartermasters to set up camps, farriers to tend to the horses, blacksmiths to repair the armour and weapons that are inevitably going to be broken. When the men arrive, they'll have nice beds in which to sleep, warm food to fill their bellies, and generals who know just what the situation is."

"Alright, alright," She held up a hand to stop him with a glower, "Though the generals are unnecessary. I command the army, no?"

"You command the King's Guard," Xiphos chose his words carefully, "but we need experienced leaders to command the army that will inevitably arrive."

"But I am the Princess-Royal," Nemireth looked at him, astonished at what he implied, "I am heir to the King. I should be commanding the army."

"Well, we'll see. For now, we need to concentrate on getting an army to have lead."

It was a little while before Gandalf returned, proclaiming that now was the time to leave.

"So soon?" She asked him, hands on hips and biting her lip, "Shouldn't we wait for my troops to recover?"

"My dear Princess," The Wizard seemed astonished by the idea, "Every moment we delay, the Dark Lord's power grows. We must ride east with all haste."

"To Mordor?"

"To Rivendell! To the House of Elrond. Come now, assemble as many men as you are able. We leave immediately."

It was a four-day journey from the Grey Havens to Rivendell and they made it at quite a pace. In all, their group numbered a dozen; Gandalf, Nemireth, Xiphos, an elven guide and eight soldiers who were judged sufficiently recovered to provide an escort. All the while, snow capped mountains rose in the distance, watching their progress. The Misty Mountains, Gandalf informed her in the few moments he would speak. Mostly he spent his time muttering under his breath, his mood dark as he drove them on with barely any time to rest or eat. What his rush was, he would not say but it was not popular with her men, who complained under their breaths in Ellayan about the chill in the wind and the poor condition of their horses for such a journey. Xiphos would snap at them from time-to-time but mostly he let them grumble, telling Nemireth it was the one boon of soldiery.

The Princess herself was not sure what there was to complain about. Sure, the sun was not so bright nor the winds warm but the woodlands were green and vibrant, the birdsong sweet and lyrical, the forest floor alight with all manner of colours as far as the eye could see. She spent her time taking in the fragrant scents and admiring the open, rolling meadows that lined their path. How could they complain when they were surrounded by such beauty? She shook her head, despairing of her countrymen.

At last, they reached the Ford of Bruinen, to be met by a dozen guards on horseback and more on foot. The Aeanorans gathered around their Princess, shields raised while regarding the Elves with unfriendly eyes. Nemireth for her part, looked to the number of archers, clad in full armour, faces concealed behind helmets, only their eyes visible. Few seemed to be watching them, most with heads raised, scanning the road behind them.

 _"They look like they're preparing for an attack,"_ Xiphos spoke to her in Ellayan, to which she had no response, mouth a little dry. It was far from the welcome of the Grey Havens.

 _"Mithrandir,_ " An elven Warrior mounted on a white charger approached, speaking in Sindarin. Even by the high standards of elves, he carried an air of great authority and power, but his expression was hard, _"It is here."_

 _"And the Bearer?"_ Gandalf responded in kind with an anxiousness to his voice that Nemireth had never heard before, _"What news, Glorfindel?"_

 _"Badly wounded but recovering. Lord Elrond's healing saved his life as did the haste of Lady Arwen in bringing him. Last I heard, he still sleeps."_

 _"That is a mighty relief,"_ Gandalf released a breath she had not realised he was holding, _"I must speak urgently with Lord Elrond."_

Glorfindel nodded, _"He expects you. Safe travels, Mithrandir_."

As they trotted into the valley, watched all the way by the guards, Nemireth regarded her companion, with an edgy look at the grim Xiphos, "Gandalf, what was that about?"

"A matter for which you must show me a bit more patience, Princess. All will be revealed in time."

"Gandalf," Her brow furrowed, the anxiety of the sentries not lending itself to her mood, "I am the Princess of Aeanor, commander of her forces in Middle Earth. You come to us asking for aid then keep us in the dark regarding matters that clearly concern Sauron. I think I have shown quite enough patience."

"I'm afraid you must indulge me a little longer. As soon as it is safe to do so, you shall learn everything, and you will understand why discretion was so important."

"I don't think I will," She snapped but fell back into stride with Xiphos. Her Captain was watching the back of the Wizard thoughtfully while her other guards were watching the trees and rising walls of the valley with great wariness. This was not how it was supposed to be; glowering faces, secretive conversations and more questions than answers.

The Princess sighed and hoped that Rivendell would at last offer some answers.


	6. Chapter 5: The Council of Elrond

If Nemireth had been hoping for answers at Rivendell, then she was to be disappointed.

Imladris itself was beautiful; perched by a waterfall that glimmered like cut glass in the sun with the elegant architecture like that of the Grey Havens but even more so, somehow. It was more like a large estate than a town or a city but as they crossed the river and entered the courtyard, there was yet more evidence of the troubled times which had befallen Middle Earth. Archers stood atop the towers and watched as they entered while the courtyard beyond the walls had soldiers in every corner. The hairs stood up on the back of Nemireth's neck as she soothed Alagos, the speckled mare stamping at the ground anxiously.

Gandalf showed no such concern, dismounting immediately and approaching an elf with long dark hair, the others appeared to be blonde or silver in colour and a serious expression like that of a teacher. The Wizard spoke a few words to him, too low for her to understand and then beckoned her to join him. She did so reluctantly, hands by her side while her guards waited in a half-circle, hands resting on the hilts of their blades. The elven warriors seemed to be responding on kind, each watching the other carefully.

"Master Elrond," Gandalf began as the young Princess approached, hands by her side, "This is Princess Nemireth, Daughter of Aredhel, Princess-Royal of Aeanor. Nemireth, this is Lord Elrond in whose house you stand."

"Welcome to Rivendell, Lady Nemireth," Elrond's deep words didn't extend to his eyes which looked over her coldly. She tried her best not to blush at his examination, though she very much felt like a child, "Though that welcome is not so warm as it should be. For this you must forgive me for we live in dark times."

"That's quite alright, Lord Elrond," She strongly suspected that the Lord did not much need her acceptance, "It is as you say, we live in dark times and Aeanor is ready to do her part."

"Indeed," There was no change in his expression.

"My Lady," Gandalf cleared his throat awkwardly, "I'm afraid I must speak with Lord Elrond in private."

"Of course, Gandalf," She flashed him a false smile, "For why else would I be here except to dismiss as needed? Though I'm sure an urchin could have been hired for a small fee for the same purpose and saved you a journey."

Elrond raised an eyebrow, looking to Gandalf, and immediately she knew she had crossed the line. She blushed deeply but the apology caught on the edge of her tongue, held back by a pride hurt by the repeated slights of the Wizard.

For his part, Gandalf merely sighed and leant on his staff, "I am sure Lord Elrond will grant you hospitality."

"My hearth and halls are as yours, my Lady," his gaze had gone from cold to distinctly unfriendly and she felt ashamed at his words, "You and your men may rest, for your journey has been long."

They then retired, leaving the Aeanorans in the hands of a small army of servants who saw to their horses and led them to their rooms. They were certainly comfortable, a far cry from the barracks of Minas Luin and certainly from the damp, swinging cots of the _Vigilance_. Nemireth was tired, the journey having not exactly been conducive to a good night's rest, but no matter how hard she tried she could not will herself to sleep. Any time she closed her eyes, all she saw was the expression of Lord Elrond and his irritation. She had made herself look a fool, not just in front of Gandalf, not just in front of one of the most powerful Elves in Middle Earth, a hero of the Second Age, but in front of her own people, to those she was supposed to be an ambassador for. Unable to take lying still any further, she arose, hoping that a walk would help clear her head.

The halls of Rivendell were quiet, the moon shining through the intricate arches as brightly as the sun ever did. There was some movement from elsewhere, down distant corridors and in far off rooms but she entered the gardens, she had only the gushing of the waterfall and the faint rustle of leaves for company. Or so she thought.

Hearing footsteps from behind, she turned to see two small figures awkwardly enter, their appearance not helped by the fact that they appeared to be hunched over a package that they were struggling between them to carry. Each had brown curly hair and padded jackets that were quite unlike those of the elves, but she spotted their pointy ears and frowned. Why would elven children be sneaking around in the dead of night? Was such a thing common?

 _"Where are you going?"_ Her sindarin was rusty, perhaps rustier than she thought as the two came to a dead stop and stared at her dumbly, parcel dangerously close to unfurling between them, _"Can I help?"_

"Um," One, the taller, looked to his companion in a mild panic. They were most un-elven in demeanour, based on what little experience she had with the race.

"We've done no wrong, My Lady," On stepped forward, leaving his friend to clutch their bounty for himself, "The cooks in the kitchen gave us this."

Nemireth could keep her eyebrows from raising. They were speaking westron? It was only then, when she looked down at the ground that she saw, not slippers or boots but two pairs of wide feet crowned with curly hair, "Oh! You're hobbits!" She blushed, "I'm so sorry! I thought you were elves."

They seemed taken aback by this, "Us? Elves?" The hobbit holding the package puffed out his chest, then stopped, confused, "Wait, are you not an elf?"

"I'm afraid not," She laughed at the mix up and the chuckle seemed to set them both at ease, "I'm Princess Nemireth."

"A princess!" Their hands dropped to their sides, their cargo hitting the grass with a soft thud but neither seemed to notice as they bowed hurriedly, the more forward of the two speaking, "I'm sorry, your Majesty! We had no idea!"

"That's quite alright, my presence was hardly announced," Yet another slight since her arrival, "Who might you be?"

"I'm Merry," Announced the Hobbit who had been addressing her, "And this is Pippin, my cousin…Pippin!" He only seemed to have noticed the bundle at his feet, "You dropped it!"

"I didn't drop it!" He hissed, eyes flicking between his cousin and the Princess, "You dropped it!"

They fell to their knees and began to unwrap the package and the Aeanoran could not help but approach, curious as to what they were zealously guarding at this time of night. As the last layer peeled away, she could see that it was a great treasure of food; vegetables, fruits, meats, cheeses, fish and breads all crushed together. Her only reaction was to blink, "Is there a feast tonight?"

"No feast, none that we were invited to anyway, my lady" Merry picked up a chicken leg and took a bite, "Just a midnight snack."

"A snack?" They easily had enough for five men, "Are you sure you got enough?"

"It was all the kitchens would give us," Merry sighed in disappointment, "But I'm sure if we go back, they'll give us more." He hesitated a moment, "Care to join us? We don't mind sharing."

"Of course," She answered before she even thought about it, delicately setting on the ground beside them, legs tucked beneath her. It was only when she smelled the pork that she realised how hungry she was. A question lingered on the tip of her tongue and it took a long second of the hobbits busying themselves with their 'snack' before she worked up the courage to speak, "Pardon me, but would either of you happen to know a hobbit called Bilbo? Bilbo Baggins?"

"Bilbo?" Pippin perked up, "Sure I know him! He's my cousin, twice removed on my father's side. He lives in Bag End in Hobbiton, or he did, before-ooph!" He was interrupted by Merry's elbow finding its way into his rib case.

"How do you know him?" Merry asked in turn, a tad suspiciously, "Did you meet him on his adventures?"

"I don't know him in person," She admittedly wistfully, helping herself to some cheese, "Just from the tales I've heard; how he helped the dwarves take back the Lonely Mountain from the dragon Smaug, how he fought at the Battle of the Five Armies."

"Oh, that's definitely Bilbo," Pippin nodded keenly, "He went all the way to the other side of Middle Earth and back; fighting goblins and orcs and trolls and spiders and wargs and dragons and elves and all sorts! His nephew is here too! I mean, not his real nephew, he's actually his cousin but Frod-" He stopped himself, eyes widening, and boyish enthusiasm replaced with a cold worry.

"His cousin…nephew?" She couldn't be sure what relationship he had shared with Bilbo. Maybe hobbits could have more than one? "Is there something the matter?"

"He is…sick, my Lady," Merry sighed, "If not for the elves…" He trailed off.

"He required elven healing?" Nemireth thought back to the conversation between Gandalf and Glorfindel, only a half-day ago; speaking of 'the bearer' and that he was 'badly wounded but healing'.

Merry shuddered, expression twisting as if recalling a particularly vile meal, "We should not speak of it, Your Majesty."

"He definitely wasn't stabbed with a magical blade," Pippin leant in helpfully and was rewarded with another elbow, the news making her frown deeply.

"It's why we needed the snack, really," Merry looked down at the food sadly, "It's been a bit hard to sleep recently and, I don't know," he looked around, "It's a little hard not to feel a little out of place."

"I know the feeling," Nemireth nodded.

"Why _are_ you here, My Lady?" Pippin was rubbing his side.

"I thought I knew, Pippin," She felt the breath leave her suddenly, pent of frustration bubbling out, "I thought I knew exactly what I was doing here. Now?" A pause, Karos' hard words stinging in her mind, _always looking to the horizon, never at what's in front of her face,_ "I don't know."

"Well, if you want to," Pippin paused, and she was surprised to see his cheeks redden, "I mean, if you don't have other plans, you could come with us? We'll be returning to the Shire in a few days' time and I don't think we've ever had a Princess visit us before."

"Pippin!" Merry was horrified, "I'm sure Princess Nemireth has far grander things to do than come see the Shire!"

Nemireth was taken aback but the earnestness in his eyes made her smile. Had she been home, such an invitation would have carried all manner of subtle subtexts, a part of the game the nobles played with her as their key weapon. With Pippin however, she saw none of the gleam that they would get, the knowing smirk that they were winning some unspoken contest by having her there, on display like a prize mare. She hated it, she always had.

"I…might not be able to go in a few days," She answered softly, seeing his disappointment, "but I would happily go, if the opportunity presents itself."

He cheered up at that and they ate the rest of their midnight supper talking of music, stories and all manner of pleasant things.

As the days passed, so Rivendell became increasingly crowded as new parties arrived, each more exotic than the last. First came the elves; from both east and west of Rivendell, followed by the men of Gondor and other lands she had never heard spoken of. Finally, came the dwarves of the mountains who seemed particularly displeased to be there. These were the free peoples of Middle Earth, the makings of the alliance that would surely throw Sauron back into the pits of Barad-Dur, but they were a far cry from what she had imagined. She had assumed them to be united but only now did she saw how wrong that assumption was. The men did not speak to the others, or barely amongst themselves, spending their time in their rooms or on the training grounds, though not at the same time as her own guards. The elves stayed with their own kind, speaking in sindarin and avoiding the dwarves, who reacted to every approach of the servants in a manner that suggested an assassin was charging at them with blade raised above their head. Meals were eaten separately, exercise was done in isolation. Increasingly, Nemireth found herself despairing. Was this how they had always been? The tales of the Second Age had never mentioned dissention or conflict between the Last Alliance's members, but these dignitaries seemed to barely know each other. How were they supposed to lead a joint effort against Sauron if they were barely talking to one another?

Her only relief from the long and tedious days were Merry and Pippin, who alone amongst the occupants of the estate seemed carefree and upbeat. The improvements in their friend had seen their mood brighten and Nemireth found herself spending more time with them, listening to them speak of the Shire, of Hobbiton, of the many parties they enjoyed and songs they knew. They even spoke of Gandalf and his fireworks and many tales ended with a great deal of laugher on her part, which only encouraged them further. Though they spoke of their companions; Frodo, the friend who had been wounded and Sam, his gardener who spent all waking hours at his side, Aragorn or 'Strider' as they called them, the human who walked amongst the elves as if he were one of their own and his love, the Lady Arwen. She had spoken to her on a few occasions, polite small-talk but she was kind and noble in bearing if solemn as all others seemed to be.

On the fifth day after her arrival in Rivendell, a message was passed around the Aeanoran chambers, where there were always at least one or two King's Guard on duty at her door, that a meeting was being held in the council room and that she and Xiphos had been invited. At this point more in hope than expectation, she dressed in her armour and headed down with her Captain. The council chambers of Rivendell were open, flanked on all sides by yet more elven guards with chairs in a horse-shoe shape with a larger throne at its open side; a seat occupied by Elrond. In the middle of the chairs was a circular piece of tree trunk acting as a table.

Amongst the seats already taken were those closest to the Elf-Lord of Rivendell, Gandalf sitting in his grey robe and looking as if he had aged many years since she had last seen him. Beside him was a hobbit with dark and curly hair (did they all have curly hair?). It had to be Frodo and it struck her how young he looked and yet old at the same time. His hand kept going to his shoulder, presumably where his wound was, and he kept looking up to Gandalf as if for reassurance. As for the Wizard, he kept playing with his hand, muttering to himself and changing his grip on the attire. It took her a long time to see what it was he was doing. Gandalf the Grey was nervous.

When at last the remaining seats had been filled, Elrond rose, this very gesture bringing the council to silence.

"Strangers from distant lands," He began, "Friends of old. You have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle Earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You will unite, or you will fall, be you near," He looked away from her, where a brown-haired man sat in armour amongst similar men, "Or be you far." He glanced at her, "Each race is bound to this fate, this one doom."

"Are we?" The man Elrond had addressed spoke, "Forgive me, My Lord, but long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, borne the brunt of Mordor's aggression and anger. For you, this threat may be new, but it has been our constant companion for as long as we can remember."

"The sacrifices of Gondor and its people have not gone unnoticed by those on this council, Boromir, son of Denethor," Elrond answered, "but new developments mean this threat now extends to us all in a way it has not done in an Age. Frodo," He turned to the hobbit beside Gandalf, "Bring forth the Ring."

With a final glance to the Wizard, Frodo pushed himself off his chair and approached the table. Shrinking a little under the combined gazes, he took something out of his pocket and placed it before hurriedly retreating.

Nemireth leant in automatically, hardly daring to believe, mouth hanging open. It couldn't be! Whispers flew around the circle as a wildfire in the driest of summers. The Princess could not tear her eyes away, taking in every curve and detail of the Ring, though it was disappointingly plain in appearance yet there was something about it that drew her in, something captivating in that simplicity.

"So, it is true." Boromir rose from his chair, mercifully drawing her attention, "I had a dream. In it, I saw the eastern sky grow dark. In the west, a pale light lingered. A voice was crying, our doom is near at hand. Isildur's Bane is found," His voice had gone dreamy and his eyes glazed over as he approached the table, hand outstretched, "Isildur's Bane…"

"Boromir!" Elrond leapt up, but Gandalf got there first. He chanted in a language Nemireth did not recognise. Though he spoke, the Ring seemed to draw from his words, magnifying them into a harsh spell that had her gripping the rests of her chair as if she would be swept away. The incantation beat Boromir back, but the discomfort spread around the room; the men shaking, the elves stiff and the dwarves angered. Elrond fell back into his chair, head resting in his hand as if in mourning. "Never before has any voice uttered the words of _that_ tongue here in Imladris," He said sharply.

"I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond," The Wizard bowed as he returned to his seat, "For the dark speech of Mordor may yet be heard in every corner of the west. The Ring is altogether evil."

"No, it is a gift," Boromir had been taken aback at first but now he rose again, "A gift to the foes of Mordor. Why not use this Ring?"

"Why do we need it?" Nemireth asked, irritated at his callous dismissal of Gandalf, "We are the free peoples of the west, no? Did we not defeat Sauron before through strength of arms? Did we not best him at his full power?" She looked around at the other dignitaries, "Can't we do so again?"

"We?" Boromir sniffed, "Who is we? To whom do I address who speaks so surely for us all?"

"You speak to Nemireth, Lord Boromir," Elrond interjected on her behalf, "Princess of Aeanor."

"Aeanor?" He asked, shocked, "The lands beyond the sea? When did their banners last fly in this land?"

"When we were last here does not matter," She pressed, "We are here now, ready to stand by our allies against Mordor, once more."

"Truly?" The Gondorian laughed bitterly, "I saw no strange pennants in the valley on my approach. Have our 'allies' mastered the magic of invisibility so completely?"

"I have been to Aeanor myself," Gandalf said, "I have spoken with the King. Their army will come."

"And in the meantime, their princess would have us march to the Black Gate and throw ourselves onto Sauron's blades." He looked her right in the eye and she bit back the retort, though her hands shook, "As if it were the days of the Last Alliance. What about you all? Do you agree with this action?" There was silence, many trying to look elsewhere that had Nemireth slumping in her seat. There would be no military action, no new alliance, no great battle of the Third Age. The people who sat at this Council were as foreign to one another as the orcs.

Boromir strode confidently around the circle, his voice booming and loud, "We have only one choice! We must use the Ring!"

"You cannot wield it!" It was Aragorn who spoke without standing, "None of us can. The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master!"

"And what would a ranger know of this matter?" Boromir smirked, turning to face his new foe.

"He is no mere ranger!" The new voice belonged to an Elf with long silver hair, sitting amongst the delegation from the east, "He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Heir to the throne of Gondor. You owe him your allegiance!"

"Aragorn?" Boromir's mouth dropped open as he scanned over the Ranger, eyes narrowed and pose rigid. It was as if he was sizing up a threat, disgust clear, " _This_ is Isildur's heir?"

" _Sit down, Legolas_ ," Aragorn said, hand raised as he addressed his friend in Sindarin, a little embarrassed as all looked to him. Nemireth did but without interest. What did it matter? They would sit in this circle and bicker until Sauron himself strode in the front door and lifted the Ring right off the table before them.

Legolas acquiesced to his friend's words reluctantly, while Boromir strode back to his seat, "Gondor has no king," He did not break eye contact with Aragorn the whole way, "Gondor _needs_ no king."

The silence that followed was broken by Gandalf, "Aragorn is right. We cannot use it."

"Lord Boromir is correct in one regard," Elrond sighed. Nemireth wondered if he had expected this or if he had hoped for more, "There is only one choice. The Ring must be destroyed."

"Then what are we waiting for?" A redheaded Dwarf launched himself from his chair and brought his axe down two-handed on the Ring. Nemireth had expected to see it fall clean in two pieces but instead the head of his weapon shattered. She threw her arms up to protect herself from flying metal while the Dwarf was thrown back.

"The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli, Son of Gloin," Elrond seemed almost amused, "By any craft that we here possess. The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast deep into the fiery chasm from whence it came. One of you, must do this."

The silence that followed was even longer. When it was broken, it was by Boromir, who was rubbing his forehead wearily, "One does simply _walk_ into Mordor. It's Black Gates are guarded by more than just orcs, there is evil there does not sleep. And the Great Eye is ever watchful. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand men could you do this. It is folly."

"Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond has said!" Legolas jumped up, his patience with Boromir about level with Nemireth's own, "The Ring _must_ be destroyed!"

"And I suppose you think you're the one to do it?" Gimli growled.

"And what if we fail?" Boromir stood, "What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?"

No one had a chance to rebut before Gimli was on his feet, "I will be dead before I see the Ring in the hands of an elf!"

That was it, elf and dwarf alike leapt up in a rage, their argument spreading to the others as soon everyone was standing. Nemireth was one of them, beside Gandalf as he confronted Boromir.

The Wizard was shouting, "-You would doom all the west!"

"Are we to rely on your friends instead?!" The Gondorian asked frantically, "Those who abandoned us?"

"We abandoned no one!" She snarled, inches from his face, fists balled up, "And you would do well to listen to him!"

"I need no lecturing from you!" His eyes bore into hers, which only made her angrier, "You're an ocean away, what do you care if we fall!"

"How dare you!" She trembled, resisting the urge to punch him, "If not for Gondor's folly, this would not have happened!"

His nostrils flared as she pointed at him, but she was beyond caring, "You would blame us for what happened?! After _all_ we have paid for the safety of Middle Earth?! You, a stranger who knows _nothing_ of Middle Earth!"

"I will take it!" These last words cut above the raucous, foreign in their earnestness, devoid of the hated that had filled the council. A shamed silence fell over them all as they found the source of the cry. Frodo stood and looked at each of them. A little surprised by his own audacity, it took a moment for him to continue, breaking the stunned silence, "I will take the Ring to Mordor. Though, I do not know the way."

"I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins," Gandalf came forward, leaning heavily on his staff as he rested a hand on the Hobbit's shoulder, "For as long as it is yours to bear."

"If by my life or death, I can protect you, I will," Aragorn had stayed clear of the chaos and now he too approached Ringbearer, falling on one knee before him, "You have my sword."

"And you have my bow," Legolas nodded.

"And my axe," Gimli added.

"And my shield," She found herself saying. She had no idea what had provoked her into doing so. Perhaps the shame of having allowed herself to fall into petty squabbling when so much more important things remained.

Boromir stepped away, the tension between them fading as he looked around at the assembled faces, resigned, "You carry the fate of us all, little one. If this indeed the will of the Council, then _Gondor_ will see it done." He looked right at her as he said it and the Princess stared right back, eyes narrowed.

"Hey!" A shape burst from the bushes nearly and a small blonde shape barrelled up beside Frodo, Nemireth stepping out of his way for fear of being barrelled over, "Mister Frodo's going nowhere without me!"

"We're coming too!" To her relief, it was Merry and Pippin who now charged up the steps to the group, "You'd have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us!"

"Anyway, you need people of intelligence on this kind of quest, mission…thing," Pippin fell over his words.

"That rules you out then, Pip," Merry gave him a hard look.

"The Ring-Bearer," Elrond looked over them all, "And nine companions. For Sauron and his nine. Very well. You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring!"

Nemireth would have felt grander, where it not for Pippin's response to this historic anointing which instead had her biting her lip to keep from laughing.

"Great! Where are we going?"

* * *

 **AN: This is my first author's note but I just wanted to say a big thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed, favourited and liked the story so far! It's really helped me write what is my first Lord of the Rings fanfic.**

 **This is the first time that the story has crossed with that of the main plot. I've changed a little bit here and there but most of the dialogue is too good to alter. I'd like to know what people think of Nemireth so far and the kingdom of Aeanor, such as it is at the moment. I've tried to keep as close to Tolkien lore as much as I can but any and all feedback is welcome!**

 **Thanks again, guys!**


	7. Chapter 6: A Friendly Challenge

**AN So it seems something went wrong when I posted this the first time around, so now reposted without the weird formatting. Apologies for that!**

 **MiladyTairiell** **, thanks for letting me know!**

The Council has broken up with decisive action but Nemireth did not much feel like celebrating. Her mood not helped by Xiphos. The Captain followed at her side, having not spoken a word at the Council and waiting until they were alone before spinning to face her, so quickly that she nearly jumped out of her skin. His eyebrows were raised, hand resting on the hilt of his blade he stared down his Commander,

 _"What,"_ He asked in the lilting tone of Ellayan, " _In the name of the Valar was that about?"_

 _"I don't know what you mean,"_ She responded in kind, eyes over the garden as she refused to look at him.

 _"What you did at the Council? You don't truly mean to join this…rabble?"_

"I can hardly back out now, can I? Unless you wish to make me, you and our country appear incapable of keeping our word?"

He had no answer to that, jaw clamping shut as he too turned to watch the garden. One of the maidens was picking some of the more colourful flowers, another was tuning a harp and the soft notes carried on the wind to them. Finally, the Aeanoran soldier let out a sign, _"Karos is going to kill me. What am I going to tell your father?"_

 _"Tell him the truth,"_ She scowled, _"Tell him I'm doing my duty. Tell him I'm going to win glory for our people and make sure Middle Earth remembers us."_

Not caring what he had to say in response, dreading what he might say, she strode off, feeling his eyes burning into her back but refusing to slow or turn. It did not make her feel better to have spoken to him like she had. Quite the opposite, but she was not in the mood to have people trying to lecture or patronise her now. Now, she wanted to be left alone.

The Princess stayed in her room until evening, spoiling her lovely, white silken sheets with the oil and dirt of her armour, staring at the ceiling until she was summoned for the feast, stopping only to change into a tunic and trousers less garish than her armour. It had been organised to celebrate the Council, but it was just like that meeting had been. The tables groaned under elaborate dishes and filled bottles of vintage wine while harp music filled the air with a beauty it did not deserve. The men sat in their own little group at one end of the room, speaking with one another in hushed voices, the elves mixed freely amongst their own, speaking a language none of the others understood. Only the dwarves seemed to be trying, no doubt thanks to the great vats of wine they had consumed, even if their newfound boisterousness was spent complaining loudly about the food, the music, the décor, the attire and just about everything else within eye-reach, conducted by her new travel companion, Gimli. Legolas and Aragorn were at the top table with Gandalf, Elrond, Arwen and Frodo, engaged in low and serious conversation as seemed to be Elrond's manner. Every so often she would catch his eye and she knew he was talking about her, protesting perhaps. She did not care. He couldn't make her stay any more than Xiphos could.

Merry and Pippin, on the other hand, were a breath of fresh air. She cracked a smile at the sight of them mingling loudly with the hobbits, sharing tales of the Shire which the dwarves eagerly challenged with songs of their own mountain homes. The elven musicians doggedly continued their melodies, but it was a losing fight against the throaty voices of hobbits and dwarves alike. Xiphos soon joined them and his baritone, if slurred voice added to the songs being sung. At last, it felt like a celebration rather than a funeral.

She had never liked feasts, never liked how they would speak of her father as if he were not present, how they would boast of enriching themselves at the expense of the kingdom itself. Worst of all, she hated how they looked at her. She hated how they would whisper to one another when they thought the Princess wasn't looking, how they'd discuss who would get her, as if discussing the spoils of a particularly good hunt. She felt her teeth grinding even thinking about it, recalling the snide looks, the knowing smirks as if they knew something she didn't, lording it over her. At last, she could stand it no longer and took her leave, ducking out of a side door before Xiphos could see, though he was so engrossed in his singing that she suspected she could have slapped him on the back of the head and he would not have noticed.

The training area was familiar to her now and yet still notably different. Large trees awash with golden leaves overhung the neatly divided squares of grass flattened by the feet of countless practising warriors. Targets were nailed to trees at one end for the archers while at the other was a track where horses could get up to a full gallop. The gap in between was taken up with training dolls, rough sacks mounted on wooden crosses that had been something of a novelty to the Aeanorans upon first seeing them. Were it day, this space would have been filled with elves practising their art but now it was blissfully quiet, just what she needed.

Pacing up and down the weapons rack, Nemireth tried each sword until she found one similar in weight to hers then found a close approximation of her shield. Suitably armed and trying not to shiver as a cool evening wind passed over her, she approached one of the training dummies, bowing to it with a mocking smile before she went to work. There was no real rhythm or reason to her movements, less the practised skills she had spent a lifetime training and more the chance to hit something that could not hit back. It felt good, channelling her strength through her arm as her thick, wooden blade bounced off the hay-filled sack that mimicked flesh. She pictured it as Boromir, with that smug expression on his face, that it was Elrond with those condescending looks he shot at her when he thought she couldn't see. She pretended it was the untrusting men, the greedy dwarves, the aloof elves, knocking sense into them one after another, the _thunk_ of her strikes filling the quiet night.

"Should I be grateful that my head is not in place of that sack?"

She whipped around, weapon pointed at the sound of the voice, heart suddenly racing until she saw the voice's owner. Boromir, dressed in a smart and colourful tunic, stopped dead, hands raised in a gesture of peace.

"Apologies, My Lady. I did not mean to startle you."

"I was not startled," Her eyes narrowed. She did not lower her blade, "You're not at the feast, Lord Boromir?"

"I was," He resumed walking, pacing a circle a safe distance from her, like a lion circling a particularly dangerous prey, "And it was a fine thing, make no mistake, but I can't endure such frivolity at a time like this. I don't know what the next life holds when I get there; but if it has good music, good ale and good company, I shall not want then."

"Well then, My Lord," Nemireth fought to keep her voice civil, "If you were there, two of those things are guaranteed."

He stopped, weighing up her words and nodding, "I suppose I deserved that. Forgive me, My Lady. Many words were said in the heat of the council meeting. The finding of Isildur's Bane is not a daily occurrence."

She stiffened at his words, looking into those sharp, intelligent eyes of his for all of a moment before instead glancing at his feet. Part of her longed to snap another retort back at him but the softness of his voice made it hard to think of one that would not make her seem a fool again. Instead, the Princess sighed and rolled her eyes, "I accept your apology, Lord Boromir."

He waited, the silence growing between them as he furrowed his brow and cleared his throat, nodding to her sword, "Is it common then, for women to fight across the sea?"

"Not uncommon," She scowled at the change to an unwelcome topic, "Do you have a problem with my joining the Fellowship?"

He shook his head, "No more than I do with the ranger, elf, dwarf and hobbits I have not fought beside before. On the contrary, your technique is surprisingly polished."

Nemireth glared at him, feeling a warm flowing into her cheeks, "You were watching me."

"I dared not interrupt," He laughed, "But I wonder how you would do against a moving opponent." He strode over to the rack and lifted a weapon, longer than hers, joining her in the square after a few practice swings.

"It is hardly proper," She managed but her resolve was weakening already. The temptation to take out her frustrations on their source and see how she matched to a 'Lord' of the eastern realms was too much, "But very well." She took up a defensive stance, hiding her body behind her shield, blade raised in anticipation.

Boromir laughed, holding his sword casually at his side as he stepped around her, eyes never leaving her own. She stabbed out at him, weight on her front foot as she put all her weight behind the rounded tip of her weapon. He flowed around her like water and before she knew it, she felt the wooden sword slide between her shoulder blades.

Nemireth hissed at the ease of his victory, resuming her defensive pose as Boromir continued to walk leisurely around her. The man brought his weapon down from above and she raised she shield to parry, only for him to switch his blow to underhand mid-swing. She stumbled back, trying to reposition herself even he stepped up to her, spinning against her shield and arriving on her exposed side. Again, the tug of her cloth as it resisted his sword told her that she had been defeated.

It was hard to tell how long they danced to the same tune, Boromir countering each move with a lazy ease that only served to fuel her growing embarrassment. Time and time again he slipped past her defences as easily as an eel wriggled between two rocks, rapping her each time until her shoulders ached from the impacts, confidence ebbing away with every defeat.

It was time for a different move, the Warrior pushing her shield at him as she stepped up, no longer caring about defence, just wanting to hit him one time. He side-stepped her clumsy attack and the inevitable result was the feel of wood meeting her shoulder bone. She lost her footing at the blow and landed into the soft grass, wishing it would just swallow her up.

"Impressive," She could only see his leather boots, scuffed and worn as he ended up in front of her, offering his hand. Nemireth refused, jumping to her feet to a snarl.

"It was not! I didn't manage to hit you once! You're too fast."

"It's not that I am fast, it's that you are slow," The Gondorian Lord tapped at her shield with his weapon, "You're too static in how you fight."

Nemireth was not in a mood for a lecture, least of all from him, "Aeanor has fought this way for hundreds of years and it has always worked for us."

"I would agree were you in a line with a hundred others trained in such a way to protect your flanks but I highly doubt the Fellowship will fight in such a manner. You've been trained to fight in a system and that system does not exist in Middle Earth. Your basic technique is good, we just need to refine a few things."

"We? You would train with me?"

"It would be my pleasure, My Lady." He bowed, "It is not every day one gets to spar with a Princess."

She bit her lip. Pride demanded that she refuse the offer of help from this stranger who had so easily bested her, yet he was beyond her skill with a sword, competent and self-assured. He fought differently to any trainer she had faced before and that intrigued her, "Very well, Lord Boromir. We shall start tomorrow."

"It would be my pleasure, My Lady," He gave her a look she could not quite read and departed, leaving her alone on the training ground, more confused than annoyed now. She wasn't sure if that was much better.

It was a week before the Fellowship were ready to depart; a fortnight to gather supplies and receive new scout reports with which to plan a route. That was done by Elrond and Gandalf behind closed doors for the most part, with other members of the Fellowship only joining on occasion to offer input or their suggestions. Nemireth was only called to one such session, summoned straight from the training ground and so she faced Gandalf and Elrond bathed in sweat, something that was becoming a depressingly common occurrence in the Wizard's case.

"Princess Nemireth," Elrond was sitting at a table close to the window, a map of Middle Earth spread out across it, "What news from Aeanor? Has a host yet been dispatched to Mithlond?"

Wiping the sweat from her brow and rolling her shoulders to ease tired muscles, the Aeanoran was forced to look the Elf-lord in the eye and deliver the news she herself had raged over, "No force has yet been sent from Minas Luin, Master Elrond. Many of our ships guard our coast against pirates and those we have can carry few men or horses. I've been assured more, larger ships will be available in time and we will be able to land in numbers."

Elrond shared a look with Gandalf, "If these numbers land when you are elsewhere with the Fellowship, who shall direct them to where they are most needed?"

"Captain Xiphos will be in command in my absence. As to where he is most needed, I'm sure you can provide ample guidance, Master Elrond."

"I see," A long pause as he weighed up his response though he wore a hard look that told her well enough he had picked up on her insolence, "Thank you, Princess. That will be all."

Biting back a retort, she had instead bowed and departed, glad to be out of his presence and back in the open air where she could focus on her practise. Contrary to her expectations, Boromir had proven a good teacher, informative but not impatient, wise but not boastful. Certainly, it helped that she was spending every moment with him that she could, sparring time and time again until she had to stop or risk collapsing from exhaustion. Her evenings were spent with the hobbits, or least Merry and Pippin, given that Frodo and Sam spent a lot of time on their own.

The day before they were due to leave however, she received a rare treat. It was Pippin's idea, the hobbit eagerly dragging her by the arm through the corridors of Rivendell, too excited to even speak. Nemireth did not ask, annoyed and curious in equal measure as at last their destination became clear, a balcony overlooking one of the many waterfalls that blessed the manor with its presence. It was empty save for a single, small man in a tweed jacket, hunched over with age, hair long, unkept and grey. Hearing them enter, he faced them, betraying more life than his lined, worn face, his eyes in particular still bright and shining. They were so mesmerising that it took a long second for her to spot the tufts of hair atop his feet. A hobbit?

"Nemireth," Pippin managed at last, "This is Bilbo Baggins."

Her jaw dropped, "I…I…" She could think of nothing to say, each word vanishing from her mind as surely as sand before a wave, "…wow…" For lack of anything to do, she bowed, then felt foolish. She was a princess. She should be bowing to no one, least of all a hobbit and yet it felt right to do so.

Bilbo chucked, a wheezy and unhealthy sound, his voice thin, "My dear child! You don't need to show me such graces! Young Peregrin Took has told me about you."

"Has he?" Brown eyes flicked to the younger hobbit, biting her lip as she fidgeted with her hands, stomach aflutter, "Only good things, I hope."

Bilbo laughed, "He tells me you are quite the fan of my stories."

"Oh, I am!" She nodded eagerly, "Especially the story of the trolls! That was my favourite as a girl."

"An excellent choice!" He clapped his hands together, "Make yourself comfortable, for this will be quite a tale."

And so, it was. The sun sank steadily deeper and deeper, the moon taking its place. Dinner came and went, as did supper and yet Nemireth was anchored in place. She may not have even noticed had the Dark Lord himself entered the room and sat alongside her. For the Princess of Aeanor was lost in a world so far away from the one she had found herself in; one of action, excitement and danger. One of great heroes, terrifying villains, steadfast friends and immortal legends. Such was the contrast that she found herself feeling a little sad.

"Well, why such the long face?" Bilbo leaned in as he finished his tale at him returning to his hobbit-hole at Bag End, "My stories of fearsome dragons and mighty orcs not what you hoped?"

"No…it's the opposite, really," She sighed and looked away, a little upset that he had seen so clearly through her, "Dragons, orcs, Dark Lords, firm friends, adventure, glory…it was the world I thought I was coming to, not the one I find myself in. You may as well have been speaking of a land in your imagination."

To her surprise, the old Hobbit leant back in his seat with a cackle of laughter, "Oh, dear me, my child! Do you think Smaug the Golden attacked me in Hobbiton? Or that Thorin and I became friends over drinks in the Green Dragon? Was the Battle of the Five Armies waged in the Shire? Of course not! Adventure does not come to us like some faithful pet. It's out there," he waved over the balcony to the world beyond, "Just waiting. And it's up to you to find it for yourself. We make our own stories," He winked at her, "And that's what makes them extra special."

She still dwelt on that when the Fellowship gathered in the mist of the next morning. The Princess was a little tired from the previous night, not helped that she was weighed down with her large, oval shield, her sword at her side, her spear and her plated armour on top of a weighty knapsack.

Elrond stood before them, watching as they checked and double-checked their possessions, waiting patiently. Legolas stood perfectly still like the statues that flanked the gateway, the hobbits clustered together, muttering under their breath while Gimli did much the same, stamping impatiently at the ground. She stood beside Boromir, the Gondorian watching Gandalf's back as he stood ahead of the others. The atmosphere was sombre, like that of a funeral.

"The Ring-bearer is setting out on the Quest of Mount Doom. On you who travel with him no oath nor bond is laid, to go further than you will," The Elf's voice echoed in the still morning. The words struck her as odd. To go further than they will? Where else would they go but to Mount Doom with Frodo? That was their purpose. That was their adventure.

"Farewell. Hold to your purpose. May the blessings of Elves and Men and all free folk go with you."

Gandalf, Aragorn and Legolas bowed at the words, the hobbits following hastily. Boromir and Gimli remained unmoved while Nemireth stiffly nodded her head, awkwardly caught between the two.

"The Fellowship awaits the Ring-Bearer." Frodo gulped audibly and, with a glance at Sam, took the first steps of their journey. As he passed through the gates, so Nemireth fell in behind him, Bilbo's words ringing in her ears.

 _"Adventure does not come to us like some faithful pet. It's out there, just waiting. And it's up to you to find it for yourself"_

And her adventure had at last began.


	8. Chapter 7: The Journey South

_Minas Luin was ablaze._

 _The choking black smoke filled her throat and stung at her eyes, acrid and sickly on her tongue. Few of the blue-tiled roofs were still standing, instead in their place were the flickering orange tongues of fire that reached as high as her bedroom balcony, surrounding and taunting her. Just beyond, she could see the Bay of Vigilance, every spare inch taken up by large ships with black sails stretching out past the ruins of Cúronost_ and _Anorost and into the Great Sea itself. There was no end to them, no end to this nightmare, no way to stop it._

 _Beneath her, she could hear screaming in the haze-filled streets, the pounding of feet on cobbles and people vainly sought any shelter they could. Terror gripped at her heart, icy fingers squeezing cruelly at her chest as she looked around, bewildered. What was happening? What was going on? Her hand went to her hip but there was no scabbard there. Instead she was wearing a ball gown, blue in colour, its beauty mocking her when such a terrible spectacle was assaulting every other sense. Turning back to face her bedroom, she screamed._

 _Her handmaidens lay sprawled out before her in an ever-growing crimson pool. Ayla looked at her with pleading, lifeless eyes, hand outstretched while Daia was slumped against her bedpost, head down as if she were sleeping but her chestnut hair blackened and sticky with her blood._

 _"Nemireth," Saer tried to stand but her arms gave out and she slumped onto her front. The Princess rushed to her, holding her in her hands, ignoring how her silken dress grew heavy and darkened all along the front and sleeves, "Why…"_

 _"Shush now," Nemireth held her as tightly as she could, tears running freely down her cheeks, "You're going to be okay. You'll be okay. I just need to get help…" Where could she get help? The world was falling apart around her. there was no help._

 _"You…" Saer's words were weak, strained, so alien compared to her lovely lyrical voice she had known and loved, "You could have stopped this…why…didn't you?"_

 _"Me?" Nemireth looked at her now, brows furrowing, "I don't understand. What could I have done?"_

 _There was a crash at the door!_

Nemireth kicked violently awake and the world that confronted her was insultingly peaceful compared to the one she had just left. The stars glowed in the darkened sky, the cool westerly wind blew softly over her bedsheets and the ground firm beneath her with the burning embers of Sam's fire warming her back. The only sounds were the rustles in the grass, the calling of the owls and the foxes to one another and the rumbling, rasping snores of Gimli who lay in a brown pile nearby.

It took a moment for her to realise how hard she was breathing, and she closed her eyes in an effort to control herself, a frigid sweat clinging stubbornly to her forehead. She pulled her blanket tighter around herself, wondering how it had suddenly become so cold.

"You are restless," A soft voice said from over her shoulder that, when she turned to look, saw it belonged to the elf, Legolas.

"I am fine," She muttered, not wanting to wake the others.

"You have not slept well since we left Rivendell." He insisted, tightening the string of his bow and watching her with a thoughtfulness she found uncomfortable, "You mutter in your sleep and wake frequently."

"You are supposed to be keeping watch, are you not?" Her eyes narrowed, "I don't think the danger will come from inside the camp."

He shook his head with a wry smile, "You are correct. But I can hear and see all that moves around us, no matter where I am turned." He glanced at the slumbering dwarf, "Though it can be challenging at times."

"Well, that's a very helpful skill. It must be rather dull, staying awake with only the owls and Gimli for company. He's not much of a conversationalist in this mood."

Legolas cracked a smile and looked away, "I find it soothing. It reminds me of home in greener times. And it is comforting to know that even in such times of darkness, it does not yet touch the lives of every creature in the forest, try though it might."

She frowned at that, considering the blonde elf in a way she had not before, "Legolas…you are a prince, correct?"

He nodded, "Of the Greenwood, though many call it Mirkwood now much to our dislike."

"Why do they call it that?"

"Evil has overtaken much of the forest," He sighed, looking away to the horizon as if he could see it, "My father fights it as best he can, but the influence of the Dark Lord is strong there."

"Are you his only child?"

"I am. Why?"

"How did he react to the news that you were accompanying the most-evil object in existence to the heart of enemy territory?"

Another wry smile, "I do not know, for I was not there when he was informed. Even in my most optimistic moments, I can't pretend he would have been pleased. And you? You are the heir to your kingdom, are you not? How did your father react?"

She gulped and bundled herself up in her sheet a little more, "I don't know. I doubt he would have stopped me anyway. He never has before."

"Ah yes, I see."

"You see? What do you mean, you see?"

"Your mother has passed, am I correct?"

Nemireth closed her eyes at that, a little spark ill-dulled by time alighting deep in her being at the mention of her mother, "Yes. When I was young."

"That would explain much."

"What? What would it explain?"

Legolas shook his head and turned away, standing and testing his bow, "Try to get some sleep, Princess. Dawn will soon break, and we will be on the move again."

She was so taken aback by his command that she could not answer before he was gone, disappearing to the other side of the camp so quickly that he could have been a gazelle in full flight and yet he made it seem so effortlessly easy. Irritated, confused and now tired, Nemireth rolled over and squeezed her eyes tight, willing herself into an uneasy sleep.

The routine at sunrise had been much the same since they had left Rivendell some days ago. First to wake would be Aragorn and Gandalf, the former disappearing with his bow to find breakfast while the latter sat puffing his pipe and gazing blankly in no particular direction. Gimli, Boromir and Nemireth would be next, one taking over watch from Legolas while the others went hunting for kindling to grant their fire some new life. The hobbits were always the last to awake, usually around the time the flames were stoked and Aragorn had returned with his catch. Sam would make breakfast, proving himself quite the cook, the camp would be packed up and they would begin their trek. So, it had been every day for the past week.

This morning, it was the turn of Boromir to watch the camp and Nemireth and Gimli to gather wood. They had left their Gondorian companion prowling the slumbering hobbits like a bear protecting its den and taken to a small copse of trees nearby to accomplish the task. The birds were in full voice, but it was difficult to compete with the clatter that was the dwarf as he threw together logs, hacked off branches and crashed about so it sounded like an entire army were doing the work of the pair.

"Bah!" Gimli grunted from somewhere out of her view, "A fine way to work up a sweat in the morning! Who knew gathering wood could be such a bother?"

"It might be less difficult," She called into the undergrowth, finding a few more suitably dry sticks and tossing them into the collective pile, "If you left some of your axes behind."

"Leave my axes?" He spluttered at the mere idea and appeared with a bundle of sticks awkwardly in his arms, a long-handled axe over each shoulder and many more smaller ones at his belt, "How would I chop the wood then?"

"You could bring one, but do you really need two full sized weapons to gather firewood?"

"Then how would I cut down any orcs we may face?"

"Couldn't one axe do both?"

He barked in laugher at her, shaking his head as he began to knock the longer of his two weapons against various trees, sizing them up.

The Princess bit her lip, hands on her hips and head cocked. She really did not like it when people laughed at her, "What? Are orcs made of some material that makes them impervious to wood-axes?"

His response, another throaty chuckle, just had her rolling her eyes and sighing as she too began to examine the trees, seeking dry and weak branches that Gimli could take his specialist, non-orc-killing axe to. After a while, she found one and rapped it with her knuckles, "This one?"

Gimli checked it over himself and nodded approvingly, allowing the Princess to retreat to a safe distance as he began to chop.

While he worked with the enthusiasm of a new recruit on the training grounds for the first time, Nemireth glanced up at the cloudless sky, "We're making good progress anyway."

"Aye," Gimli huffed with another heavy swing, "In the wrong direction."

"What do you mean?"

"We're going south. Mordor is to the east." He pointed helpfully.

"Gandalf is a wise and powerful wizard who knows a great deal of lore and legend of Middle Earth. I'm fairly confident he knows where Mordor is."

"Say what you like, lassie. We're still going the wrong way."

Looking eastward and shielding her eyes, Nemireth could see the rising peaks of the Misty Mountains that had been their companion for the entirety of their travels so far, "Could it be, Master Dwarf, that there is a mountain in our way?"

He snorted and hacked at the branch, causing it to tumble to the leaf-carpeted ground. Holding his axe higher up the handle, he began to whittle away the small twigs which had spouted along its length, "It need not be in our way."

"Oh no? What route would you take then?" While he worked on the larger branch, she resumed collecting the debris that littered the floor, "Is there a door in the mountain that we happen not to know of?"

"Funny you should say that. I would go beneath the Misty Mountains, through their very roots. For there dwells the mountain home of my people, the great kingdom of Khazad-Dum, or Moria as the elves now call it." He spat, "Lost to us so long ago, now retaken by my cousin Balin and open to travellers once more."

"Oh," She considered that, "Have you mentioned this to Gandalf?"

"I have. He would rather we keep going the oppos-"

"-there you are."

Nemireth and Gimli both leapt out of their skins; Gimli dropping one axe and drawing another while The Princess' curved blade slid cleanly from its scabbard and pointed to the new voice. They relaxed only a second later as the familiar shape of Legolas appeared, bow in hand, intense eyes flicking from one to the other of them.

"Don't sneak up on us like that!" Gimli snapped.

The Elf tilted his head, "I was not sneaking."

"You could have fooled me." Nemireth slipped her sword back and tried to still her racing heart.

"Maybe we should tie bells to those flowing golden locks of his," Sneered the dwarf, "So he may not so easily come upon us and take years from our lives at will."

The Prince frowned and rolled his eyes but did not rise to the bait while Nemireth smirked, "You must return to camp. We need to move, now." With that, he was gone, vanishing off amongst the trees again in the direction of their camp.

Annoyed at his vagueness and at abandoning their hard work, both followed at a brisk but hardly elven pace. It was only when they were clearing the woods that Nemireth realised what Gimli had done upon hearing their companion and she looked down at him, "Did you really drop one big axe to draw another?"

"I told you," He huffed, "It's not for orcs! It's for wood!"

"They're the same!"

"Ha! I challenge you to find one forest in this fair, green land that has ever been confused for an army of Mordor."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it. I meant the axes are the same!"

"They are completely different!"

This argument continued until they had reached the camp. Nemireth was surprised to find that the hobbits were awake and grouped together, the fire extinguished and the bedding rolled up and packed away on Bill the Pony's side-saddles. None of the group had their weapons drawn but both Aragorn and Boromir rested hands upon the hilts of their swords while Gandalf gripped his staff a little more grimly, all were staring westwards.

"What has happened?" Gimli asked, resting his weight upon his weapon as if it were a walking stick, "There had better be good reason for us to have abandoned such a fine pile of kindling."

"Be still, master dwarf!" The Wizard snapped, never breaking his gaze, "Legolas, have more appeared?"

Legolas' eyes narrowed, as if he were seeing something beyond the rolling green hills at the feet of the mountains, "No. We are against the wind, so they have not picked up our scent."

Nemireth caught Boromir's eye and the man mouthed one word, _'Patrol.'_

The Elf relaxed, "They are turning northwards."

Gandalf sighed in relief, eyes briefly turning to the sky before falling upon the party, "We must make south, with all haste."

They fell into a marching order and began at a quicker pace than the last few days had been. Legolas was out in front, darting ahead as a scout while Aragorn stayed at the back, turning to survey their trail frequently.

"Nemireth," Pippin asked, his rucksack bouncing on his shoulders, eyes wide, "Are we being hunted?"

"Of course not," She answered with a confidence she did not entirely feel, "It was just ill-fortune that brought them near us. Don't worry," She leant down and whispered to him, "We have Gandalf."

That seemed to calm him, but she quickened her pace so that she fell into step with the grey-clothed Wizard who had, as ever, taken the lead, "We're still heading south." It was not a question she asked.

"We are. We make for the Gap of Rohan."

"But," She bit her lip, "Did I not hear that Saruman has betrayed us for Sauron?"

"You did."

"But doesn't he dwell in Isengard which-"

"-stands watch over the Gap of Rohan. I am aware of this," He muttered impatiently, "But it remains our best route. Otherwise we must attempt the Pass of Caradhras and that is a grim road in the height of summer never mind the dawn of autumn."

"Gimli mentioned another way-" She got no further before Gandalf cut her off abruptly.

"-I know what road Gimli speaks of. I would not take it unless we had no other option and will brook no debate on the matter. Now if you could leave me be, I must think on a great many things."

Thus dismissed, she fell back feeling no more comforted than before.

The next two days were spent looking over their shoulders, broken only by a brief night's rest with no fire. The watches were split as always; Aragon and Gimli first, Nemireth and Boromir second. Though they kept a keen eye in all directions, starting at every unexpected sound, their shift passed without incident and they were relieved by Legolas, who always stood his vigils alone. She found little solace in sleep as the same nightmares haunted her and soon she abandoned the pretence altogether.

She was in good company tonight; for though Gimli was as a stone to the waking world, ever reliable in this regard, and the hobbits slept soundly together, the others seemed to have the same problems as she. Aragorn sat alone atop a boulder, his pipe flaring as he watched the hobbits intently while some distance off Boromir was having an animated discussion with Gandalf. Legolas was looking out over the horizon and she could not disturb him and risk a distraction when the enemy could be so near.

Resigning herself to silence, the Princess slumped down against a rock, only to gasp when she saw two bright eyes peering through the darkness at her.

"Frodo," She managed, holding a hand to her chest, "You startled me."

"Sorry," He said in turn. It might have been the effect of the moonlight upon his face, but it only now struck her how unhealthy he looked. She knew he had not been eating as Sam mentioned it at every meal-time, but she could see the heavy bags under his eyes and the paling of his skin. The absurdity of it struck her, that in a party of wizards, royalty and warriors it was this halfling, who so far as she knew had done nothing particular of note, who carried the greatest treasure in Middle Earth. His name would go down in history and she briefly allowed herself to imagine how that would feel. The glory of returning to Aeanor having made her mark on the world. _The_ Ring-Bearer. Not even Othion had won that honour, surely the only one to evade him.

The Princess shook her head as her imagination threatened to run away with her and she instead smiled at the Hobbit, "Are you feeling okay? You look unwell."

"I'm okay," He muttered, huddling around himself, "I'm just having trouble sleeping."

"So am I," She lay back against the same rock as he, looking down at her companion, "I guess it's difficult to sleep under the stars when I'm used to a soft mattress."

He nodded but did not answer, leaving her to break the silence again, "Merry and Pippin told me about Hobbiton and about 'Hobbit Holes'. It sounds quite the novelty. I've been invited to visit once we are finished our task and I'd enjoy it if you could give me a tour of Bag End. Your uncle made it sound quite spectacular."

"Uncle Bilbo does love to exaggerate," She thought, just possibility, she might have seen the crack of a smile, "And I would be happy to show you, if we return."

"We will," She took his shoulder, a gesture she thought comforting but which made him flinch as if she had just struck him across the head, " _You_ will. You will get to Mordor. You will get to Mount Doom and you will destroy that Ring. We'll be there for you every step of the way. All of us. I don't care if Sauron himself stands before us, we'll get you there and we'll get you back again."

"Thank you," He whispered and hurriedly looked away. She desired very much to hug him or show him some sort of affection, but the memory of his reaction was fresh and instead she left him to his thoughts.

The Princess was not alone for long however, before Boromir stormed over to her, tutting and sighing like a petulant child, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head as if some great joke had been played on his honour.

"The fool," He glowered in the direction of Gandalf, who had now gone to Aragorn and was discussing something with him in a much more refined manner than he had with Boromir, "The old fool. What does he know?"

"Excuse me?" She whispered, hoping that her example would be enough to get the man to lower his voice, "What happened?"

"I advised Gandalf on going through the Gap of Rohan to my city, to Minas Tirith, but he refuses to listen to reason. He says there are too many spies watching that road." He snorted derisively, "We are instead to sneak past Saruman's back door and pray he is not watching before fleeing to the wilderness. The greatest weapon of the enemy and we are to bring it so close to them that they'll practically be able to smell it, not to one of the grandest cities in Middle Earth. It is a place of strength, a place of powerful allies and firm friends but we will forsake that in favour of trees and foxes and chance because the stubborn old fool will not listen."

"Gandalf has a plan," She found herself saying, earning the glare of those fierce eyes in return, "We would be the fools to stray from it."

"Has he shared it with you then?" Silence was his answer, "Were you to take the Ring and decide it's course, would you bring it into the wasteland? Would you not bring it to the protection of Denethor, son of Ecthelion and to the city of Anárion?"

The Princess opened her mouth to respond and closed it again abruptly as she found she had no real counter-argument. Her only response was a scowl in his direction, at which his own expression softened.

"Forgive me, My Lady," He exhaled, "It is the frustration speaking through me."

"It appears to be a habit of yours, Lord Boromir. I see the sense in your arguments and would call the plan our best was it not for Gandalf's council. I trust where he leads us and nothing you say can convince me otherwise."

"Then you are a fool as he is," The man said with a real viciousness that had her hand dropping unconsciously to the hilt of her weapon. He tucked himself into his bedroll and had his back to her but she was sure he was awake still. She spent the rest of her night there, propped against a rocky wall with her eyes on the Gondorian until at last sleep overtook her.


	9. Chapter 8: Over the Mountain

Nemireth was stiff when she awoke the next morning and was in a poor mood as preparations were made for breakfast. Fate itself seemed to be trying to help her, as the day was bright and their chosen campsite, amongst large, white boulders, was blessed with sufficient firewood and prey that the morning routine passed easily. A fire was burning before long, Sam tending to it with the care and diligence the gardener might have shown to any of his flowerbeds. Frodo was nearby, hunched and silent as ever while Gandalf and Gimli took advantage of the respite to smoke their pipes, the task of watch left for Legolas and Aragorn.

Nemireth herself sat atop one of the rocks, legs crossed as she drew the whetstone against her blade. Once she had found the task tedious, complaining at length to Karos about the need to sharpen her sword every day when surely, the chances she would need it were slim. Now, it was comforting to do something so familiar even if in strange surroundings and company. After each draw of the stone she would stop and peer down the length, turning it over assessing the edge with eye and thumb before resuming work with only occasional glances up to where Boromir trained Merry and Pippin in basic swordplay.

"Laddie, I don't know what witchcraft they teach in the Shire but it's a crime that it has stayed there for so long," Gimli puffed, "Tell me, how do you get such delicious aromas from your cooking?"

"Well," Sam's chest puffed out, "It's all in the spicing, it is. A little pinch of fennel, a touch of sage and a few basil leaves do the world of good."

"And how much longer do you plan on tormenting us, Sam?" Nemireth asked from her perch, stomach rumbling, "I could polish off a horse at this point."

"It's nearly ready, Miss Nemireth," She chuckled to see him blush as he looked up at her, "A few more minutes I reckon to let the meat rest."

"Let it rest?" Gimli puffed on his pipe, "Is it tired out from all that cooking?"

"It's to seal in the flavour, Master Gimli. Or else it will be bloody and dry."

"Bah, nothing wrong with a bit of blood in meat, Laddie! It adds to the taste! And it stains your beard the most wonderful colour."

"Indeed, for bibs are unknown in the realms of the Dwarves," Legolas said, he and Aragorn joining the fire, "as indeed are manners."

"Ha, manners?" Gimli sneered, "Do not get me started on the manners of elves-"

"Gentlemen, I think this ground has been covered before, has it not? Need we disturb breakfast with a repeat?" Aragorn settled near to Nemireth, shifting his long scabbard so he could be seated more comfortably, glancing across to the Princess, "May I?" He held out a hand.

With only a moment to consider his request, she handed over her weapon, hilt first. Any concern she had at possible mistreatment was misplaced, for he handled it as if he were holding a fine treasure, turning it over and looking down its curved length. The blade itself was quite thick in depth but ended in a sharp, long point.

"It's an excellent weapon. Very finely balanced," He held it in one hand then the other, rolling his wrist while the others watched, "But very light. A cavalry sword?" He gave it back.

She accepted it with a nod, "The King's Guard are known as ' _Yuna Harn'_ in my native tongue; Double Fighters. For we are expected to be as capable fighting from horseback as we are on our feet, just as the Ellayan riders were in the elder days."

"Bah, horses," Gimli shook his head, "Overrated if you ask me. Jumpy, sensitive creatures. There's nowhere a horse can bring you that you can't get to with your own feet." He stamped on the ground.

"Is that because dwarfs so rarely leave their mountains?" Legolas asked, to which Aragorn rolled his eyes, pulled out his pipe and went to watch the lesson occurring not too far away.

"It's because dwarves have good, solid sense," He tapped his temple with his pipe, "Reliable and lasting as the stone itself, we are. Though our council is rarely sought." He glanced at Gandalf, "Even on relevant matters."

Shaking her head and not wishing to hear yet another spat between the dwarf and elf, Nemireth sheathed her sword and joined Aragorn in watching Boromir work with the young hobbits. They were giggling between themselves while the man chuckled at their enthusiasm. Everything seemed normal, jovial even, but she could not get from her mind the image of his expression from the previous night, an ugliness that ill-fitted his handsome features, the anger present one second and then gone the next, as if were a figment of her imagination.

"Move your feet," Aragorn offered from the perimeter of the sparring.

"You're getting good at this, Pip!" Merry declared, stepping into his cousin's place as Pippin retreated with a proud grin that couldn't help but make her smile. Boromir's blows were slow and carefully aimed but the Hobbit was blocking them effectively, face a picture of concentration.

"They're certainly coming along," Nemireth said, leaning back and folding her arms.

Aragorn hummed in agreement, taking a deep draw from his pipe before blowing out the ball of smoke, "I fear they'll need these skills before long."

She glanced at the Ranger but he was still watching the fight intently, "Merry, keep your finger below the cross guard. You'll find yourself one short if you do not." He said.

They stopped briefly to let him adjust before resuming with a clang.

"The patrols?" She asked.

He nodded, "They grow in number by the day. We've crossed their paths at least twice."

"And they'll get worse the closer we get to the Gap of Rohan?"

"I can only assume so."

"Then why are we going this way? If we must go through the Gap, then wouldn't going to Minas Tirith be better?"

Aragorn shook his head, "That road holds more danger for us than our present route."

"More dangerous than the patrols? More dangerous than bringing it within viewing distance of Isengard?" She frowned, "Are you not the true King of Gondor? Why would you have so little faith in your own people?"

She could see his shoulders slump as he put away his pipe, "I don't say these words lightly. If I felt it were within my power to help Gondor, then I would do so. As it is, the Ring is best out of the hands of men and as far away as we can get it."

They were interrupted by a yelp from Merry, his sword dropping to the ground as he held one hand in the other. Nemireth leapt forward, anxious while Boromir leant in, weapon dropping to his side, "I'm sorry!" His voice was full of concern.

In response, Merry struck at his leg, joined in seconds by Pippin who hurriedly dragged the bigger man to the ground with the battle cry of "For the Shire!".

Nemireth settled back in relief while Aragorn stepped forward with the air of a teacher surrounded by excitable students, "Gentlemen, that's enough-" He began only to have his ankles taken from under him by the hobbits. Try as she might, the Aeanoran could not help but laugh at the sight of them on their backs.

In an instant, Legolas was beside her, leaping from one rock to the other and gazing towards the Gap. Her eyes followed his and saw the focus of his attention, a dark haze in the distance.

"What is that?" Sam asked.

"Nothing!" Gimli declared, "Just a wisp of cloud."

"It's moving fast," Boromir had noticed it now as well, climbing to his feet, "And against the wind."

"Crebain!" Legolas shouted, already on the move, "From Dunland!"

"Hide!" Aragorn grabbed Nemireth by the sleeve and pulled her towards the camp. The next moments were a panicked scramble as supplies there thrown out of sight, the fire extinguished and the members of the Fellowship dived beneath the thickets which surrounded them. They were barely out of sight before the flock was upon them, flying in circles over their location with screeches and squawks. Nemireth dared not breath, able only to see the black shapes whizzing by through the thickets and leaves that hid her from their sight. She hoped.

At last, the birds lost interested and flew off back in the direction they had come. No one moved a muscle for a long while after they were gone until Gandalf emerged, his hat in his hand and a glower in his lined features, "Spies of Saruman," he declared, "The passage south is being watched."

"Perhaps they didn't see us?" Pippin offered, face white.

"They saw us," Gandalf shook his head and turned to the mountains, "We must take the Pass of Caradhras."

* * *

It did not take long for Nemireth to realise, even in her limited experience, that Caradhras was possibly one of the most unpleasant places in the world.

As they climbed higher and higher amongst the peaks every step seemed to yield one of three possible outcomes. Either they sank up to their knees, or waist in the case of Gimli and the hobbits and required the effort of three steps to lift it out again, or there was simply no grip at all, causing them to slide like a new-born deer trying to find its legs for the first time. The third outcome was the worst, for it was a combination of both and it made progress very slow, especially for Bill the pony who had taken to the mountains about as well as could be expected of a shire pony.

The views they passed were spectacular, the sun catching the snowy peaks and making them gleam like cut glass but it was not worth the chilled wind that soon had nostrils stinging and throats aching with every breath. Nemireth kept her head down, having never felt so cold in all her life. It was if her blood was turning to ice in her veins, no matter how tightly she wrapped her cloak around herself. There was little talk, each member of the fellowship focused on their own discomfort until at last night began to fall. The coming of the eve did not bring relief however, quite the opposite.

She sat in camp with her arms wrapped tightly around herself and watched as Aragorn struggled to light a fire on the one piece of ground devoid of snow. He worked tirelessly but she could hear his hisses of frustration as time and time again, the spark from his flint and steel would land upon their assembled kindling and stubbornly refuse to catch. At long last, Gandalf put them out of their misery, lowering his staff with some murmured spell before flames leapt up from the damp wood with an energy and brightness quite unlike those who surrounded them.

As they huddled around the fire, eating the dried rations they had brought from Rivendell, Pippin looked to Gandalf, his cheeks pale and his lips blue, "Do we have much further to go, Gandalf? I'm worried I might lose a few toes before we reach the ground again."

"It is a few days yet, Pippin," Aragorn answered from deep within his cloak, "And we have yet to reach the highest point."

The young Hobbit's face fell, "You mean…it will get worse?"

"I pray not," Aragorn sighed, "I pray that our luck and the weather holds."

"Because luck has been nothing but kind thus far," Boromir murmured under his breath.

"It is folly to go over the mountain," said Gimli, his beard thick with ice, "When an age ago, my people dug perfectly good caverns and roads beneath."

"Be that as it may, Gimli, we are here now and must make do as best we can," Aragorn lit his pipe, seeming to find comfort in the action.

"At least there is no pursuit," Legolas seemed unperturbed by the cold, "The enemy patrols will not follow us into the mountain."

"Why would they?" The Dwarf huffed, "They need only wait for us to become as blocks of ice, then come and collect us as they please!"

"We'll be okay, Gimli," Nemireth managed, voice shaking as she fought to keep herself from shivering wildly, "If one of us does freeze, I'm sure you have a special ice-cutting axe you could use to free us at once."

It took a second for that to sink in before the Dwarf burst out in laughter, a strange sound in so remote a place, "Aye lassie, I have one at that! Though if the elf freezes, perhaps I'll just chisel him into a pretty statue and leave him for those who follow us to admire."

"Certainly," Legolas was entirely deadpan, "If you wish me to point in a direction as I do so then I could double as a signpost."

Their laughter was lost as the wind swept in and robbed them of what meagre warmth they had managed to collect.

The fire did not take long to die down and all huddled closer to the embers in a vain effort to benefit from what little life it had left. Nemireth took the first watch with Legolas, though she did little more than sit with her cloak wrapped around herself as tightly as she could manage while Legolas, dressed no differently than he had on the plains, strode around the group without leaving so much as a mark upon the snow.

"You are not cold?" She asked him in astonishment, seeing the colour in his face.

He shook his head, "I do not feel it as you do nor leave my mark upon the face of the world."

"Fortunate," She forced out as her teeth began to chatter.

"It is fortunate and unfortunate both," He sighed before looking her over, "You, on the other hand, are quite cold."

"Truly? What part of my devious deception betrayed me?" She was trembling, her words forming fog before her eyes, "Were I in Minas Luin now, I would be lying upon my bed with the windows open, wishing for a sea breeze to free me from the heat. Now, I'm sitting here thinking I shall never again complain of being too hot."

The Elf smiled, taking off his cloak he threw it around her which earned him a glare, "I do not need help," She said though the extra layer was certainly an improvement.

"If it is indeed so unwelcome, I shall take it back."

A pause, "Perhaps I will keep it for just a few moments."

He laughed, "You are warm-blooded, Princess. In time, you will get used to the cold."

"I look forward to it," She leant back, eyes turning skywards, "I've never seen the stars so bright."

"We are atop the world, my Lady," Legolas looked with her, "Only Manwë's eagles and Eärendil are above us."

"It's beautiful," She whispered breathlessly, "Which one is Eärendil's star?"

The Elf took a second to scan the night sky before at last, he was able to point, "There. It is the brightest star in the sky."

She found where he was pointing and was transfixed by the glimmer that was so far away, "It's amazing. I could never find it when I looked at home."

"It took me a long time," Legolas admitted, "When I was young, looking up until my eyes burned. My father tried to show me more than once but I wanted to find it myself."

"And did you?" She yawned, suddenly overcome with the exertions of the day.

"You must rest, My Lady," The Elf was now watching her, "I can stand watch alone."

"No," She murmured but it was harder and harder to keep her eyes from closing, "I will stand watch with you." She dropped off, leaving her companion to regard her with a warm smile that was quite foreign in such a cold place.

The next morning, they continued their ascent. The path was steeper than before and they were quiet as they focused on not falling and rolling back down the side of Caradhras. Despite their caution, all slipped more than once and nothing was more soul destroying than having to clamber through ones' own footprints and expend precious energy only to reach their previous high mark. Nemireth's head was bowed, focusing on where she was placing her own feet when she heard a scuffle from in front. Looking up, shielding her eyes from the sun bouncing off the snow around them, she caught a glimpse of curly brown hair amidst a white spray as Frodo tumbled head over heel before he caught by Aragorn. Pulled to his feet and looking rather dishevelled, Frodo was about to thank his companion before he instead grabbed at his own chest, then began to frantically look about for something.

It took her chilled mind longer than it should to understand what was going on but even as the significance dawned on her, she saw Boromir lean down and scoop something out of the snow. Her mouth fell open as she looked upon the Ring for the first time since Rivendell, unable to pull her eyes away.

"Boromir…" Aragorn warned but he seemed not to hear, entranced by that which he held in his hand.

"It is a strange fate, that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing, such a small thing…"

Molten anger poured through her icy veins, such a sudden hatred for Boromir of Gondor that her hand flew to her sword, nostrils flaring. _He_ could not have the Ring!

"Boromir!" The shout startled her and just like that, the flash of rage was gone, leaving her cold and confused. Aragorn's hand rested upon the hilt of his own blade, "Give the Ring to Frodo."

The man hesitated before breaking out into a careless smile that did not reach jumping pupils, "Of course!" He said with forced joviality, "I care not!" Frodo snatched the Ring from him and Nemireth felt an ache as it vanished from view. Boromir tussled the Hobbit's hair before resuming his previous trek, though the group waited until he was some distance from the Ringbearer before continuing themselves.

The Aeanorean inhaled deeply, closing her eyes as she tried to make sense of what had happened. Boromir had been a threat to Frodo but that was not why she had gone to her weapon. It was a different anger, not that of a friend wronged but…jealously? She had felt it only a few times before, not the sullen jealous that came from being in the company of prettier women or mightier fighters but an unbridled fury that was immune to all logic and reason. Why had she felt that of all things?

Shaking her head, the Princess tried to put it and the thoughts of the Ring out of her mind as she hurried to catch up with the group.

Whoever Aragorn had prayed to the night before, it seemed his pleas had gone unanswered. Quite the opposite, as the clear skies were consumed by swirling grey clouds in what felt like minutes and the temperature dropped again, something she had thought impossible. Before long, snow began to fall, gently at first as if teasing them before the wind joined it and soon they were fighting against the full fury of a blizzard. Flecks of ice whipped across their faces like gravel, making it difficult to breath unless looking down. Even shrouded in a hood, she could feel it gathering in her long, brown hair, clinging to her eyebrows and freezing upon her face. Ahead, Gandalf fought to clear them a path while the hobbits were now being carried by Aragorn and Boromir as the rising drifts threatened to consume them. Progress was now painfully slow, such to the point that they constantly seemed to be fighting entombment as they inched forward.

As ever, Legolas seemed unbothered as he walked atop the same surface they were sank up to their waists in and it was hard not to feel some jealously as he walked ahead on the outside edge of the ledge they now found themselves on. Visibility had dropped to such that she could barely see Gandalf some five or six feet in front of her and so could definitely not see over the edge, which was probably a mercy.

All of a sudden, Legolas paused, rushing to the very edge and looking out into the grey fog that enveloped them, "There is a foul voice on the air!" He called.

Nemireth could hear no such voice, unless the howling wind counted as fowl, and in her mind it certainly did, but Gandalf replied with a cry of his own, "It's Saruman!"

Before that could sink in, a groan from above drew all their attention as they looked up to see massive boulders tumbling down the side of the mountain towards them. They bounced past but the ground beneath them shook so violently that she could keep herself from toppling over, only to be held up by Gimli.

"He's trying to bring down the mountain!" Aragorn roared over the wind, "Gandalf, we must turn back!"

"No!" The Wizard stepped out to the edge and spread his arms. His booming voice was lost to the mountains as he chanted in some language she did not understand. Transfixed by the magic occurring before her, she failed to notice the fork of lighting which struck high above them. Legolas roughly shoved Gandalf back against the rock before leaping for her, grabbing her waist and hauling her back just as the deluge of snow and ice fell upon them.

Darkness consumed her, a weight pressing down on her as she gasped for breath, the enclosed space fanning the panic to her mind, making it impossible to think. A hand penetrated her prison and roughly grabbed hold of her collar, bringing her back up to the surface. She saw it belonged to Boromir, concern in his eyes as she dusted herself down and looked around to see that the others were all present, though Legolas had moved to beside Gandalf.

"We cannot stay here!" Boromir was shouting, "This will be the death of the hobbits!"

"If we cannot go over the mountain, let us go under it! Let us go through the mines of Khazad-dûm!"

"Let the Ringbearer decide," Gandalf's reply was quiet and yet they all heard it over the storm.

Frodo did not think long on it, his voice firm, "We will go through the mines."

It was hard to take any encouragement from their new path though, for even a quick glance in Gandalf's direction saw the defeated resignation in those ancient features, "So be it." He sighed.


	10. Chapter 9: Durin's Door

The relief of escaping Caradhras' cold grasp was soon overridden in Nemireth's mind by a growing unease.

It was hard to pinpoint precisely what brought about such nervousness. Perhaps Gandalf's pessimism was proving infectious for although they made no contact with the patrols of Saruman and the flocks of Crebain did not return to harass them from the air, still the mood was heavy. The deeper into the shadow of the mountain they got, the worse the feeling became, rolling green hills giving way to rising slopes on either side that felt uncomfortably like they were being shepherded into a trap. She was clearly not the only one in the group to think such things for Legolas was constantly occupied, head snapping this way and that like a prowling cat surrounded by potential prey, hand never leaving his bow. The others, not so blessed with the same sight or hearing as their elven companion, had to make do with the sounds of their boots and Bill's hooves on hard, worn stone for hour after hour through evening and into the night.

Frodo was at the head of the party with the Wizard while the others walked in tight formation behind. The Princess found her eyes falling on him every so often though for what reason she could not tell. Each time she did, she felt a pang in her stomach, as if she were doing something wrong and yet that pain did not stop her from looking again just a few moments later.

At last Legolas returned to them, having darted ahead some time ago and without warning. To her surprise, she was relieved to see him return, "There are no patrols ahead," He reported, fidgeting with his bow, "All is still."

"What is the matter?" Aragorn asked, scanning the Elf for more information, "This news should bring relief yet you look discomforted, my friend."

Legolas shook his head and glanced back towards the mountain, "All is too still."

"Nonsense," Gimli harrumphed from behind, "This mountain is under the control of Durin's Folk once again, that is why there are no patrols so close to the gate."

"I saw no evidence of dwarves, either on the ground or in the air."

"You elves," He shook his head, beard swishing from side to side, "You think you are the only ones who can be hidden when they wish? Perhaps Balin has no desire to venture forth and why should he? Khazad-Dûm is a great kingdom and he brought only few with him, there is doubtless much to be done in the heart of the mountain still."

"Khazad-Dûm was important then, Gimli?" Nemireth asked before Legolas could retaliate in their ongoing spat.

"Important?!" He spluttered, "Lassie, it is the home of all dwarf-kind on this good earth! It is where Durin the Deathless first looked in the Mirrormere and saw the crown upon his head! Khazad-Dûm is the greatest of all dwarven realms."

She was a little taken aback by his sudden enthusiasm and it took a moment for her to get a reply out, "So, yes? We've not heard of it in my lands."

"Your lands must know little of Middle Earth then, Lassie, if the name of Dwarrowdelf has not reached your ears."

"Sadly, that is true." She sighed, "We have all but turned our backs on Middle Earth and forgotten our old alliances."

"That is not entirely true," Legolas interjected, "After all, you stand here with us."

Nemireth smiled at that thought but had no time for an answer before there was a sharp intake of breath from the Dwarf, "Ah! The Walls of Khazad-Dûm!"

Eager eyes searched for these walls but she found nothing approaching that description. She saw that the side of the mountain was smoother here, a path rimming a glassy, grey pond with what might have once been a great bridge above them but which had long since been broken.

"It's just a mountain," She said. Aragorn looked back at her and chuckled lightly, shaking his head in amusement while she placed her hands on her hips, "What? I see no walls and definitely no way in."

"Dwarf doors are invisible when closed, Lassie," The Longbeard rapped his axe against the stone as if savouring the chink that rang out in response."

"Yes, Gimli, their own masters cannot find them if their secrets are forgotten," Gandalf said from the front of the group.

"Now why doesn't that surprise me," Legolas rolled his eyes, the Dwarf responding with a low, threatening growl.

Standing before the 'walls' of Khazad-Dûm, the group gathered around while Gandalf searched the walls with long fingers, muttering under his breath. Nemireth was close enough to pick out what he was saying, still unsure as to why he was caressing a mountain with such care.

"…Ithildin, it mirrors only starlight and moonlight."

As if bidden by his words, the shadow covering the moon passed and bathed them in an ethereal glow, bright as daylight. Her mouth fell open and her eyes went as wide as dishes as the door revealed itself, glowing as fiercely as any forge's fire, beautifully interwoven with ancient words and images, as tall and wide as the gates to the Royal Palace in Minas Luin but so much more majestic, demanding respect and awe in equal measure. She felt a fool for having dismissed such a wonder out of hand, sparing only a brief glance for Gimli to see that he too was held in reverence.

"It reads the 'The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria." Gandalf explained, touching each word in turn with his staff above the arch, "'Speak friend, and enter'."

"What does that mean?" Merry asked incredulously.

"Oh it's quite simple. If you are a friend, you speak the passport and the doors will open." He then proceeded to do just that, placing his staff in the centre of the door and speaking Sindarin in his commanding voice, " _Gate of the Elves, open now for me!_ "

They waited expectantly but nothing happened. Gandalf, looking a little put out, spread his arms out wide and spoke again, " _Doorway of the Dwarf-folk, listen to the word of my tongue._ "

Still there was nothing. Gimli let out a little disappointed breath while the others looked around unsurely.

"Nothing's happening," Pippin was looking up at Nemireth and helpfully offered.

Gandalf, meanwhile, had put his shoulder to the door and seemed to be attempting to push it open through brute strength alone, "I once knew every spell in all the tongues of men, elves and orcs." He grumbled.

"What are you going to do then?" The Hobbit asked in a cheerful tone so misplaced that Nemireth winced.

"Knock your head against these doors, Peregrin Took!" Was the sharp response from the Wizard, "And if that does not shatter them and I'm allowed a little peace from foolish questions, I will try to find the opening words."

So they waited while Gandalf tried phrase after phrase. Some of them were in Sindarin which she recognised, others were in Adûnaic, the language of Númenor of which she knew some but others were completely foreign to her, in languages she did not even recognise. As time dragged on, so the tension left the group and they began to drift away. Aragorn went to help Sam free Bill from his reins and so spare him from the mines, assuming they ever got in, which in her opinion was looking a little optimistic at this point.

Merry and Pippin had started skipping stones off the water, seeing who could get them the furthest and Nemireth settled nearby, watching their game with interest.

"Fascinating," She said, almost to herself.

"They don't skip stones in Aeanor, Princess?" Pippin asked, rummaging about his feet in search of the perfect projectile.

"Not that I ever saw, but I spent my life in a palace or surrounded by guards. There wasn't much chance to just skip stones."

"What did you do then, growing up?"

"Read, learned," She made a face, "A lot of learning. Played soldiers when I got the chance."

"Sounds thrilling," Gimli puffed on his pipe.

"Such is the upbringing of royalty," Legolas sighed, "A great deal of which appears to have been codified in book form."

"Endless books," Nemireth pulled a face, "About some terribly dry subjects."

The Elf nodded in agreement, "Of course, not all books are such. There are a great many of poetry and song, legend and lore that I found very fascinating indeed. Others…less so."

They were interrupted as Boromir approached, fist knocking against his thigh, "I grow tired of waiting. Every hour we delay is another hour in the open."

The Princess rolled her eyes, "If you wish to try and break down the door, I'm sure no one would begrudge you. The boot of Gondor will surely succeed where the spells of men and elves have failed."

His eyes narrowed but he did not raise to her bait, instead focusing on the competition between the two hobbits. It was Merry's turn and he wound his arm back in preparation only to flinch as his arm was grabbed by Aragorn who suddenly looked concerned.

"Do not disturb the water," He said in a calm voice but his eyes darted over to where Pippin's last stone had fallen, the ripples fanning out gently in all directions.

Except the ripple coming back was larger than those that had gone before.

Nemireth glanced to Aragorn but his gaze was fixed on the lake. Boromir stepped up, standing side on the lake in wariness. Suddenly, a great deal of crunching and grinding came from behind, making her jump as at last the doors swung open not to Gandalf but to Frodo. Gimli's cry of triumph expressed the relief of the group as they gathered their things and entered, though Aragorn kept glancing back over his shoulder.

The entrance beyond the gates was dark but the gloom did not stop Gimli, "Soon master Elf, you will enjoy the fabled hospitality of the dwarves. Roaring fires! Malt Beer! Red Meat off the bone! _That_ is a real welcome! And they call it a mine. A mine!"

Certainly the smell that greeted them was far from welcoming, a foul and putrid stench that had Nemireth's stomach turning. Gandalf had pulled a crystal from his robe and attached it to his staff, causing it to glow and throw light upon the scene before them.

"This is no mine," Boromir gulped, "It's a tomb."

Nemireth's blood ran cold as she looked upon the grizzly sight. Scattered all around the chamber were the remains of what had to be dwarfs, the thin remains of proud beards hanging from limp jaws, mail still clinging to hollow forms and skeletal fingers gripped tightly to rusted weapons with empty sockets staring endlessly into the void.

"No…" Gimli rushed forward to the nearest body but it was clearly beyond their aid, "Nooo!" He howled as Legolas pulled an arrow and examined the tip.

"Goblins!" he spat, throwing the arrow to the ground in disgust and drawing his own. Nemireth's blade was out of her sheath in seconds as were Aragorn and Boromir's.

"We make for the Gap of Rohan. We should never have come here," The Gondorian said and it was hard to disagree, "Now get out of here, get out!"

They formed a line between Moria and the hobbits, her eyes scanning beyond the borders of Gandalf's light, where the force that had done this to the dwarves had to be lingering, her muscles tense.

Then there was a cry from behind, "Strider!"

She turned and started dumbly, Sam's panicked voice stunning her mind as did the sight that confronted her. Frodo was on his back, fighting against something wrapped around his leg with his friends in pursuit, blades drawn. Sam had gotten there first, a slash causing the slimy tendril to retreat and leaving Frodo to gasp for breath. She did the same, relief filling her that he was safe but it was all too brief.

From the now bubbling lake, a mass of tentacles lashed forth, knocking the other hobbits back and lifting Frodo into the air. Beneath him was a monstrous mass of teeth with unseeing eyes and waxen, grey skin, teeth long and sharp in the gaping maw.

The Fellowship spilled out and threw themselves into the lake with weapons in hand. Legolas fired an arrow into the flailing appendage that held their charge helpless while the humans swung at anything that moved in front of them. The water was freezing cold about their legs but none cared, panic gripping their minds as they fought only to get to Frodo.

Ducking past one tentacle as thick as a tree trunk, Nemireth cut at another stretching up above her, the creature howling in pain as the limb dropped into the murky water. She felt something grip at her skin, wrapping around her waist, a cold and horrifyingly clammy feeling as it pressed against her armour. A flash of silver caught her attention and she looked down to see another tendril fall into the water by Boromir's blade, for which she paid him a nod of thanks.

Ahead of them, Aragorn weaved between a wreathing mass of tentacles and cut the one holding up Frodo. He fell into the waiting arms of Boromir with a pained cry.

"Legolas!" The Gondorian yelled as he powered his way out of the water, a white wave surging in front of him. Aragorn and Nemireth covered his retreat, driving away the feelers that came for their prize. An arrow flew between them and buried itself in the eye of the horror, driving it pack with an angered growl, giving the group the time they needed to reach land.

"Into the mine!" Gandalf called from within, sword in hand.

They needed no telling twice and they rushed for the still open Door of Durin, Nemireth grabbing Pippin's collar and all but dragging him in as the Creature hauled itself in pursuit. There came from behind a great crashing sound as it hit the arch and brought down behind them a great pile of masonry that threw them into darkness once more.

For a time, the only sound was laboured breathing from all. It was broken only by two thumps of wood on stone before Gandalf illuminated their surroundings once more.

"We now have but one choice," He said, "We must face the long dark of Moria. Be on your guard, there are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world. Quiet now, it's a four day journey to the other side. Let us hope our presence may go unnoticed."

And so with damp cloth sticking uncomfortably to her skin, the fresh memory of the appendage wrapped about her waist and arms hugging herself tightly, Nemireth followed the Wizard into the pits of the Moria.

* * *

 **AN: Apologies for the shorter chapter this week, this part of the story will be quite long and I thought it best to break it up. Thanks for all the reviews so far, I really appreciate the feedback!**


	11. Chapter 10: Drums in the Deep

It was hard for Nemireth to believe, but it seemed the only ordeal in Middle Earth worse than going over Caradhras was travelling under it.

All about them was silent, no chittering of insects, no singing of birds, no rustling of leaves on the breeze. In such a void, every sound they could hear was magnified; the exhales of her companions, the rub of scabbards and packs, the clatter of leather soles against pebbles. Each echoed back to them so it felt unnervingly like their company was greater in number than it was. The darkness was suffocating, impenetrable beyond the light Gandalf's staff could throw and in those shadows all manner of abominations were surely lurking, watching, waiting.

There was still faint hope that perhaps Balin's company had been able to hold on to the Dwarven Kingdom, driven from the borders perhaps but still standing in the further halls. That hope grew increasingly fleeting the deeper they went and the more dead they found. As they went through the mines, it was hard not to feel like they were trespassing upon a tomb, a broken and faded memory to the endeavour of the dwarves.

Nemireth's hand kept coming to her stomach, rubbing at her armour where the creature at the door had wrapped a tentacle so tightly around her waist. There had been no time to think, eyes entirely on Frodo but there had been something else. She had felt it in the very pit of her stomach, as if the tendril was tearing through flesh and bone, like her limbs were suddenly tied to boulders and her mind replaced with lead. Then it had been cut from her and the feeling went with it. Each time she thought on it, a shiver ran through her, not helped by her clothes remaining stubbornly damp, the stale, dry air beyond the task of drying them out.

"Boromir," Her words were quiet and yet even then they rang out as surely as if she had bellowed them at the top of her lungs, "Thank you."

The man looked back at her, looking as edgy and uncomfortable with his surroundings as she felt and gave a curt nod of acknowledgement. It was not the place to make conversation.

"Be careful," Gandalf whispered from up front and gestured with his staff to their right, where the floor had simply vanished, leaving nothing but a monstrous chasm that must surely have reached to the very depths of the world, "The wealth of Moria was not in gold, or jewels but mithril."

He extended his staff over the gap and the Fellowship peered over the edge, caution soon giving way to amazement as the insignificant light bounced all the way down the abyss, gleaming so sharply that it stung her eyes to look directly upon, as if staring at the sun. It was only when the Wizard pulled his light away and all fell back into darkness that they were free of the enchanting sight.

"Bilbo had a shirt of mithril rings that Thorin gave him." He said quite calmly and Nemireth relaxed a little. If Gandalf was not worried then they had no cause to be.

"Ah," Gimli was astonished, yet it was first he had spoken since they had entered the mine, "That was a kingly gift!"

"Yes. I never told him, but its worth was greater than that of the Shire!" The Wizard chuckled.

Briefly, she wondered what she would do if she had such a metal, fashion it into a undimmed crown perhaps? Or maybe forge a breastplate no weapon could breach. The Mithril Queen. The idea amused her more than it should. Shaking her head to clear it of such idle thoughts, she hurried after Gandalf.

The next two days and nights were a monotonous grind. Sleep was a precious and rare commodity as the unnatural silence clawed at their unconscious minds. Nemireth tossed and turned, asleep and yet aware of her surroundings. She could feel the hard stone beneath her blanket and her linen tunic sticking to soft skin beneath her armour.

 _"You were so scared,"_ A voice that was her own and yet a stranger to her whispered, as if a ghost had lips to her ears. Though the words were soft, each cut through her, _"When you were grabbed. You wanted to scream, drop everything and thrash like a fish on the hook. A frightened little girl who has tricked the world into thinking she's a warrior. Your companions know it too. They know they should not have let you come, a child and foreigner, her head full of fairy tales. You are supposed to be Othion's heir? You are to save the Kingdom of Aeanor and carry on his legacy? You are not even fit to lace his boots. Just like your father, and his father before him. You will sit on your throne as your realm wastes away before your eyes, an heir to failure. Unmourned and unloved."_

"No," She murmured to herself, tightening her grip on her blanket, eyes squeezed shut.

 _"Yet there is strength in you. An ember buried deep just waiting for the right kindling, a key to unlock your true potential. You could strike down Sauron and be the greatest of all your kin, a Queen of the likes unseen in all the ages that have gone before. Aeanor would be as Númenor in the days of old, a power undimmed onto the ending of the world. Your name would become legend and the world would be free. All you need is the right key. All you need…"_

"Nemireth?"

She jolted up with a gasp, fists balled and ready to lash out but she saw only the cold blue eyes of Legolas kneeling above her, filled with concern and his brows furrowed. The Aeanorean slumped back into her bedroll and looked up at the black ceiling so high above them. "Was I speaking in my sleep again?"

He nodded. She felt the colour just drain from her face, "What did you hear?"

"I am not sure, for I do not know the tongue you spoke but they were said most…aggressively." The Princess scowled at that, "Of course, it is not my place to pry but you were…disquieted."

"When you stand watch, Legolas," Nemireth asked him sharply, the words spilling from her lips, "Do you ever search for our enemies or do you spend the long nights staring at me?" She saw his composure slip for the first time, mouth tightening in conscious effort and regret filled her, "I'm sorry. I have…not been myself since we entered Moria."

"I understand," The Elf nodded, "I too long to look upon the sky again, to see the sun and stars. I cannot understand how dwarves can stand to live in such desolate places."

"Maybe they're not all so desolate? From what Gandalf told me of Erebor, it is a place of great splendour," She sat up now, hands wrapped around her knees and grateful to be discussing something other than her.

"Erebor has some beauty," Legolas allowed, "But it could be as the Undying Lands and I would not wish to live there."

"Forgive me, but don't you live somewhere called 'Mirkwood'? It doesn't sound like a place of great beauty."

Now it was his turn to scowl, "There is a darkness upon my home, this is true. But there is light, and music, and a goodness the world refuses to acknowledge. It was not always so, but in these times, the evil is all the world wishes to see. There are times I wish the world could see the Greenwood as I see it."

"Do you think Gimli ever feels the same?" She asked quietly, to which Legolas could merely squirm and shrug. As the silence fell upon them, amplified by the quiet in the depths. Brown eyes fell on the little pile that was Frodo, feeling that same longing as before, but sharper.

 _All you need is the right key…_

"Frodo seems to have overcome his encounter with the monster in the lake," She managed, though her voice wavered.

"I am not so sure," Legolas seemed as grateful for the distraction, "He murmurs as you do. Sometimes about the creature, sometimes it is as if he speaks to Bilbo, to Sam, to Gandalf. Other times he speaks but I cannot make out who it is he addresses." He shook his head and sighed before turning to her, "What of your home, My Lady? You seem to speak so little of it."

She was surprised at that, "My home? You mean Aeanor? It is…" She shook her head, unable to give words to the images in her head, "It is my home. There is Minas Luin, the Blue City upon the Bay of Vigilance. To the far south there is Ice Anvil, or _Jalsandan_ in our tongue, the great city carved into the ice and stone of the Malahen Mountains, to the west the endless rolling plains of the Emerald Plains and Ellayanar and then the north has the Dunelands and the great Dune Sea. There is no magic there, as there is here. No elves build houses upon our waterfalls, no dwarves dig great cities into our mountains, no hobbits settle in her fields. It is a world of men," She made a face. "I was never much interested beyond what was required of me, I always preferred the stories of Middle Earth that Gandalf would bring."

"And yet you pique my interest by mere names alone," The Elf leant in, interested, "I notice your cloak is blue, as if your shield yet it bears a silver eagle upon it that looks not unlike the Great Eagles of Manwë."

"It's from the story of Aeanor's founding," Nemireth glanced at the wooden oval perched nearby, the bird-of-prey perched atop the central boss with wings outstretched, "It is said when Eru destroyed the Golden King's army, a great storm whipped up amongst the ships of Caldor's fleet, my ancestor. He fell to his knees and begged forgiveness, throwing the ring of Númenor into the sea and offering himself in payment for his family's survival. The Valar were moved to pity by his regret and so calmed the storms, Manwë sending an eagle forth to guide our ships to the land of Meluinor. Ever since, our symbol has been the silver eagle, so that we may never forget the mercy that brought us to our home." She yawned, suddenly tired from so much talking.

"There is magic aplenty in that story but I have kept you awake long enough, Princess. I apologise for disturbing you."

Knowing when she was dismissed, Nemireth nodded and settled back under her blanket, though she stayed awake as long as she could, hearing the Elf walk his lonely patrol path around the camp and wishing for anything other than to fall asleep.

Their journey was no more pleasant the next day and not helped by the heaviness of her eyes. They were climbing at least, the deepest part of the Misty Mountains behind them. Each chamber they shuffled through contained yet more death, the grim story of Moria's defence being read to them loud and clear. Their progress on that third day was good right up until they arrived at a passageway with three doorways, each identical to her. The company came to an abrupt halt as Gandalf regarded each in turn, "I have no memory of this place." He announced.

They settled down while Gandalf lit his pipe and sat atop a boulder, surveying the three possible routes as he searched for some clue as on how to proceed. A restlessness spread amongst the group, a nervous energy as Aragorn, Boromir and Gimli also began to puff on their pipes. Boromir had become noticeably quieter and brooded shoulder to shoulder with his fellow man, occasionally sharing looks but no words. Indeed, the only conversation came from Pippin, whose train of thought manifested in a series of statements to Merry.

"Do you think Gandalf knows the way?"

Merry was looking to the ceiling and did not answer him.

"I think we're lost."

No response.

"Merry?"

Silence.

"Merry."

"What?" His companion at last snapped.

"I'm hungry."

Nemireth had to chuckle at that, barely managing to contain the laugh but even that sound echoed around them until it sounded like some great boar was amongst them. Not exactly flattered by the sound as it reached her ears and with impatience quickly overcoming her, the Aeanorean strode to where Gandalf had perched himself.

"Will we be long?" She asked in what she thought was an authoritative voice but a glance from the Wizard quickly made her realise how foolish it had sounded, "Do you really not remember the way?" Not much better.

"Many roads have I walked over a great period of time, young Lady," Gandalf exhaled a great ball of smoke, "Not all live long in the mind and the gift of foresight does not yet extend to knowing precisely which I shall need to recall and when and you," He gave her a chastising look, "Could do with showing a little more patience."

"You're right," She sighed, sitting beside him, "Just like you always are."

"Hmm, not always," he shook his head, "But with pleasing enough frequency." They sat in companionable silence while he puffed on his pipe, "So, has Middle Earth been all as I described it?"

"Not quite," She snorted, "You missed out the big monsters that live in lakes."

"Well, I could not give away _all_ details, or else would you find this a terribly dull place." Another puff, "You were frightened, when you faced it."

"I was not!" Too quickly she responded.

The Wizard rolled his eyes and sighed, "After all these years, the finest tutors in your lands and yet you still have pudding between those ears. There are many types of bravery in the world, Nemireth of Aeanor. Facing a powerful foe on the field of battle? Yes, that takes valour. Looking deep within and allowing ourselves to admit that part we feel is weakness? That is a different kind of courage and it is no lesser than the first. Do not chase one type and shun the other, or you will find yourself wanting for both."

She bit her lip, "Have you ever been frightened?"

He chuckled, "Oh my dear, it is a constant and welcome companion of mine."

It was not the answer she had been expecting and the Aeanoran wished to pursue the matter further but already the others were watching them and she was keeping Gandalf from his task. Instead, she removed herself and walked to the edge, where Frodo stood looking keenly down the steps they had just ascended.

"I saw something," He whispered up at her, eyes wide in the dark. She searched herself where he was pointing but saw nothing other than shadows.

"What?" She was somewhat sceptical but he was so earnest, so certain that she could help but look time and again.

"I don't know, I think we're being followed." Her skin crawled at those words.

"Go and tell Gandalf, I will keep watch in case it returns."

He dashed up to the wizard, his conversation low and serious with the baritone voice answering in kind. That left her, Boromir and Aragorn. Catching the Gondorian's eye, she hesitated, "Thank you, again."

He looked up at her with a surly expression and grunted, "It was nothing."

"But it was," She insisted, "I owe you my life."

"Nonsense. You would have done the same, were our roles reversed. I hold you to no oath"

Aragorn removed his pipe, searching her with wise eyes that made her feel very insignificant beside him, "It was your first true fight?" He asked softly.

Gritting her teeth and with only an embarrassed side glance to Boromir, she nodded.

"You did well," Was all the Ranger said, resuming the smoking of his pipe before there was a cry of triumph.

"Ah!" the Wizard had risen from his seat, "It's that way," He nodded to the left.

"He's remembered!" Merry was on his feet with the sort of speed she had seldom seen outside of mealtimes.

"No, but the air doesn't smell so foul down here. When in doubt, Master Meriadoc, always follow your nose."

Certainly, she could see his point as the air did indeed smell a little fresher though she could have imagined it just as she entertained the idea that they were now both climbing and coming into wider tunnels, enough to walk two or three abreast if they wished. Through a doorway, Gandalf halted them theatrically, "Let me risk a little more light," He blew upon the crystal which began to glow more fiercely than ever, "Behold, the great realm and Dwarf city of Dwarrowdelf."

The Fellowship watched in wonder at the sight it revealed to them. Stretching out far beyond what the pale light could reach were vast stone pillars as wide as the turret of a castle, flawless and smooth as glass yet black as night. The cavern they held up was gargantuan, higher than they could see. Even Nemireth felt a pang of loss, only able to wonder how splendid Moria must have been in its glory days. She spared a glance for Gimli, who was transfixed, mouth hanging open as he absorbed as much of his ancestral home that he could. It was Sam who summed it best,

"There's an eye-opener, make no mistake."

They were enthralled still as they made their way between those great columns of stone, the Aeanorean finding it impossible not to feel fleeting and small in the company of such wonders. They had been standing long before her kingdom had been born, perhaps even before men had walked the earth itself. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined seeing such a sight.

So eager were their eyes that did not take long to fall upon an opening in the near wall, a doorway that looked to have been forced open with yet more dwarven dead scattered loosely about it. Nemireth jumped at a great gasp that escaped Gimli's lips before he was running for the door, ignoring the calls from Gandalf for him to return and leaving the others no choice but to follow.

They found him on one knee, low cries escaping his lips as he knelt before a broad but simple sarcophagus of plain, grey stone. The chamber in which it sat was the grisliest yet for here the concentration of defenders was thickest yet. Beyond a well in one corner, the door and a single window high above them, there looked to be no way out. Nemireth found herself looking at the one beam of garish sunlight that fell upon the centre of the room, anywhere so she did not have to look upon another fallen dwarf and wonder how he had met his end.

Gandalf stepped up to the tomb and swept away the dust that sat atop it, reading aloud the runes carved there, "Here lies Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria. He is dead then." Gimli lowered his head and howled as the last flicker of hope was extinguished, "It is as I feared." He seemed distracted by one particular corpse lying against the tomb, moving aside a spindly arm to take from him a thick book that he had held onto dearly in his final moments.

"We must move on," Legolas hissed to Aragorn, "We cannot linger."

Any thoughts of leaving were broken when Gandalf read, long and slow, "They have taken the bridge, and the second hall. We have bared the gates, but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes. Drums, drums in the deep."

Nemireth found her skin growing cold and prickly, a shiver running through her at the desperation in those words. She stood beside Gimli, placing a hand on his shoulder as he heard how the final days of his cousin's reign had ended, deep beneath the mountain beyond the reach of friend or kin, yet still Gandalf read;

"We cannot get out. The shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out," He looked up, "They are coming."

A great crash rang out behind them.

All spun to its source, hands on weapons, Legolas with an arrow drawn while Frodo was roughly pulled behind them. Its origin was the well, where Pippin, unseen by the others engrossed in the final words of Balin's party, had moved to the skeleton that had slumped atop it. Said skeleton was now missing its head, which sounded like it was on its way to the bottom of the world. It was soon joined by the rest of the body which lazily tipped backwards and vanished from view, bringing with it a long, rusted chain and a bucket. The noise seemed to rumble on for eternity, Pippin wincing at every new clatter from far beneath them.

Everyone held their breath as the last of the racket faded. They looked to one another. They looked to the door. They looked at the well. Nothing happened.

Gandalf slammed the book shut and put his back to the Hobbit, "Fool of a Took! Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!"

Pippin opened his mouth to answer.

 _Boom._

His face turned white.

 _Boom._

Gandalf turned back to the well.

 _Boom! Boom! Boom!_

From all around came scuttling and scrapping, the sound of feet rushing against stone, screeches and cackles from far away.

"Mister Frodo," Sam was staring at Frodo's blade, glowing a soft blue.

"Orcs!" Legolas ran for the door but Boromir beat him to it, throwing them shut with a great heave of his shoulder even as arrows embedded themselves in ancient wood close to his head. He held the door shut, looking around the room with the sort of weariness that might have been funny were things not so perilous, "They have a cave troll," he announced as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

They braced the door as best they could, Legolas and Nemireth throwing them some of the fallen dwarven weapons to bar across it but they would not hold for long. Retreating, they drew their weapons and prepared themselves, Aragorn and Legolas with arrows drawn, Nemireth and Boromir with swords and shields braced for the charge.

 _Bang!_

She flinched at the first shake of the door, the weathered slabs creaking and groaning in protest. Her blade rested atop the rim of her shield and she saw it was trembling.

 _Bang!_

"Argh!" Gimli leapt atop the burial place of his cousin with a guttural roar, axe in each hand, "Let them come! There is one dwarf yet in Moria who still draws breath!"

 _Bang!_

The first planks fell away, grey axes breaking through. Legolas fired a shot through the gap with a pained squeal in reply. Aragorn rewarded the next to make an opening with the same gift.

 _Bang!_

The doors flew open and in swarmed the orcs, skin lumpen and rotten, eyes black and cat-like, their stench stomach turning, teeth broken and sharp as their blades. She saw no more before they were fighting for their lives.

They had never fought before but the skill of the Fellowship was clear. Legolas stepped back from the front, allowing the humans to take his place in the line, and picking off any orc who tried to move around them. Even the hobbits joined in, cutting down any who made it past the swirling blades of Aragorn, Boromir and Nemireth.

For Nemireth, the moves were natural, Karos' voice coming back to her after years of training, _"Always keep on your toes, conceal yourself behind your shield as much as you can. Strike when you see a chance. Do not overreach and leave yourself open."_

So she could feel the orcs beat against her protection, heavy thuds and clatters as they bounced off, timing her moments to lash out with her long sword. She almost froze as it first bit into flesh and bone, only remembering at the last second to twist and pull it free. They were holding the line well, orcs falling before them until the cave troll arrived.

It was tall, so tall that it collapsed the doorway as it entered, hauled on the end of a long chain leash and wielding a vast iron hammer which it brought down with a mighty clang. Aragorn dived one way, Boromir and Nemireth the other. After that, all was chaos.

Finding herself alone, Nemireth cut through the two orcs who tried to take her on the ground, slicing at their knees as she struggled to her feet, an axe bouncing off her shield before an elven arrow took down its holder. The troll was looking right at her, bringing its weapon over its head and down in a great arc. Mind painfully slow to process this, Nemireth could only bring up her shield. A hand grabbed at the collar of her tunic and pulled back hard, throwing her from her feet just as the mallet landed where she had been standing, leaving a divot in the flagstones.

Regaining her balance, she saw the hand belonged to Boromir and he did not even acknowledge her as he fought off the charge of a half-dozen orcs. She leapt to his assistance as the troll turned to Gimli, who had embedded a throwing axe in its chest. In return, it smashed Balin's casket in an attempt to reach him, the Dwarf falling to the ground and, under Legolas' cover, dismembering those orcs closest to him.

Troll fixated on Frodo, attempting to stand on him only to be stopped as Boromir and Aragorn tried to hold it off with mixed success. Nemireth tried to fight her way to him but she could get no closer than one step before another fiend was upon her and to deal with it. She saw glimpses of the creature's pursuit of Frodo, how it drove him into the corner of the room, how Aragorn intervened only to be swept aside moments later with a great forearm, how it took his spear and without hesitation, drove it into the Hobbit's chest.

The battle paused as all saw their friend fall. Even the orcs halted briefly before the Fellowship fell upon them with a wrath against which they could not stand, Nemireth finishing off the final orc with a blade driven as deep into his foul, twisted gut as she could manage. That left just the troll. Merry and Pippin had leapt upon its back with daggers in hand while Gimli and Gandalf struck at its limbs before, in a bellow of pain, it gave Legolas the window he needed. The Prince of the Greenwood needed no second chance, his arrows finding the roof of the beast's mouth mid-howl. It stopped, stumbling as if drunk before finally falling to the ground with a mighty clatter, sending Merry and Pippin tumbling across the floor.

Nemireth was aching and panting hard but she cared not, eyes only for Frodo as she stumbled to where Aragorn held him in his arms. Her lips moved in silent prayer, hoping the Valar could hear her even when so far from them, _Please, Nienna, Lady of Mercy, let him live. Please, let him be okay…_

She stopped at Aragorn's shoulder, not wanting to see the still form of their charge, grief close to overwhelming her until she heard a small cough.

"Frodo!" She could not help but cry aloud in joy while Sam looked close to tears and Aragorn stared dumbly.

"I'm alright, I'm not hurt," The dark-haired Hobbit sat up, a little embarrassed by the attention.

"You should be dead!" Aragorn spluttered, "That spear would have skewered a wild boar!"

"I think there's more to this young hobbit than meets the eye." Gandalf chuckled.

Frodo looked to him, eyes wide before glancing down and parting his shirt ever so slightly. It was enough for them to see the shining silver gleaming up at them, finely interwoven fish-scales that looked no worse for their punishment.

"Mithril. You are full of surprises, Master Baggins," Gimli grunted in approval.

They were able to say no more, as the booming of the drums began again.

"To the bridge of Khazad-dum!" Gandalf raced from the chamber with the others, still trying to understand how they had cheated death in such impossible circumstances, followed as fast as they could manage.

Orcs poured in from every direction, screeching and calling to one another as they closed in, as if they were on the hunt. There was nowhere to look that was not swarming with the servants of the enemy. Quickly, they were surrounded.

The Fellowship bunched together as best they could, back to back as they faced the hordes. Nemireth stood close to Frodo, shield in one hand and blood-darkened sword in the other, meeting eyes with her enemy, trying to find which would be the first to advance to her. Fear twisted at her guts, clenching and squeezing until she felt like bending over double, the final words of the dwarves coming back to her; _We cannot get out…_

 _'Please don't let me die down here. please let me see the stars once more…'_ She whispered them under her breath in the Ellayan tongue, trying to keep herself from shaking.

A roar rushed up the hall and washed over them like a wave.

The orcs were crying again, not in victory now but in panic, squealing as they fled, scrambling for the pillars and holes from whence they had crawled. The group stood in position still, ready for what surely to be a trick but the goblins showed no sign of slowing even as Gimli laughed at their backs.

In moments, a hall which had been seething with orcs was theirs alone again.

But not alone.

The Princess' fear did not abate as she looked down the chamber at the source of the call which had put their enemies to flight. All was still other than what sounded like a heavy and deep breathing, like that a boar. A glow was moving between the pillars, like a smokeless pyre was approaching.

"What is this new devilry?" Boromir asked of Gandalf in a whisper.

The Wizard's head was bowed, eyes clenched tight as he gripped his staff so tightly his fingers had turned white, "A Balrog. A demon of the ancient world."

Balrog. The word was not one she knew but one look at Legolas was all she needed, all colour having fled from his fair features. That frightened her most of all.

"This foe is beyond any of you, run!" Gandalf broke into a sprint, finding strength from some unknown place. There was no order now, each ran as fast as they could to escape the oncoming flame. They came to a long and winding staircase, fractured and broken in places, entire flights claimed by time as they were able to look down into the darkness.

Stones fell as hail from the roof as they jumped down the steps, the Balrog beating upon the wall they had just passed through, cracking the thick stone as easily as one punched through parchment. An arrow landed at Frodo's feet and careened off into the darkness. Nemireth's gaze snapped around as she found its source, Orcs clustered far from sword range, arrows raining down upon them.

"Frodo," She stepped in front of the arrows, shield raised, "Stay with me."

He nodded up at her, wide-eyed as she ran half-bent, covering them both. He flinched as loud thumps met their ears, arrowheads embedding themselves in the blue-painted wood and bounced about their feet. Under the cover of Legolas and Aragorn's bows, they were able to make it beyond their range with no casualties. They were so close now! When she looked up she could see the bridge and the exit beyond!

"Over the bridge!" Gandalf beckoned, "Fly!"

Nemireth followed Frodo over, the bridge perilously narrow, scarce two footsteps wide and she did everything in her power to keep from looking down. The sudden heat at her back as if she were lying against a kiln did not help matters but she dared not turn around. It was only when she reached the safety of the other side that she saw what was happening.

There stood Gandalf upon the bridge of Khazad-Dûm, alone against a creature which could only have crawled from the very depths of hell. It had no shape, its form wreathed in flames with shadow at their core, many times Gandalf's size with intense, burning eyes, wicked wings folded into its back and long, curved horns. Beside it, the Wizard was a pathetically small presence.

"You cannot pass!" He called with a power many times greater than he appeared.

"Gandalf!" Frodo had noticed and stood in amazement as the elderly grey man confronted the demon. Some part of Nemireth's mind called for her to run to his aid, to help him fight such impossible odds but her feet as were iron and she was rooted in place.

"I am a servant of the secret fire, wielder of the flame of Arnor. The dark fire will not avail you, Flame of Udûn!"

Bringing forth a sword many times Gandalf's height, the Balrog made to strike him only to be repelled by some invisible force, the weapon falling in useless pieces to the chasm below. Enraged by this slight, it advanced onto the bridge, making to crush him.

"You shall not pass!" Gandalf roared and brought his staff down upon the bridge at his feet. The Balrog paused, wary of some unseen sorcery but it was a brief hesitation. Leaning forward to take him in its burning palm the bridge suddenly way beneath it and sent the mighty beast tumbling into the abyss, with Gandalf alone remaining.

For the first time in what felt like hours, she exhaled, the tension beginning to leave her. He had done it!

The sense of euphoria was shattered abruptly as a whip rose from the pit with a great crack and wrapped itself about the Wizard's ankle, pulling him over the lip.

"Gandalf!" Frodo tried to run for him but was stopped by Boromir, struggling and kicking against the bigger man.

Nemireth could only stare, unable to grasp how quickly things had gone wrong, the image burned into her brain. There was Gandalf, scrambling for grip on broken stone, orcs gathering on the far bank. They had to help him! She had to help him!

He took one look at the party, "Fly, you fools." He said it so calmly, as if his advice were the most obvious thing in the world. Then he let go.

"No!" Frodo's anguished howl stung at her very soul while she stared dumbly, trapped in place, as if she were a statue placed there by the dwarves of Moria themselves. Brown eyes watched the spot where he had held on, sure she was missing some trick of the Wizard. There had to be something more going on. There just had to be.

A hand grabbed her shoulder firmly and tugged firmly, dragging her away. She fought, but it was weak and unable to keep the unseen limb from pulling her out into the open air.

It felt like an insult, to be hit with such a cool, fresh wind after what had happened, the world celebrating their return when there was nothing to celebrate. The Hobbits fell about her in grief, tears staining their cheeks while Boromir had to keep Gimli from returning to Moria, axe in hand, shouting words she could not hear. Legolas walked amongst them, lost surrounded by so much heartache. She herself just stood as she had in Gandalf's final moments, frozen in that moment. Unable to move. Unable to think.

"Legolas, get them up," Aragorn cleaned off his blade while the Elf hesitated.

"Give them a moment, for pity's sake!" Boromir pleaded, still holding back their dwarven friend.

The Ranger was unmoved, "By nightfall, these hills will be swarming with orcs. We much reach the woods of Lothlorien."

So the hobbits were pulled to their feet, Frodo having strayed some distance from the group. At last, Aragorn came to the Princess, who had yet to move so much as a muscle, "Nemireth? Come, we must move."

She looked at him and only when she saw how blurry and misshapen he was in her vision that she realised she was crying, "Aragorn, we have to go back." Her voice was calm, surreally so.

He shook his head, "We cannot."

"But," Her voice cracked, "He might need us. He might have fallen on a ledge and be w-waiting for us," Her voice began to waver, "He might need our help, he might be wondering where we are…"

"Nemireth," He placed his hand on her shoulder, voice soft, "We cannot help him now. He is beyond us."

"He can't be," She sobbed, shaking her head, "Aragorn, he can't be."

He squeezed her shoulder softly, "I'm sorry." And then he was gone. She watched him go before unsteadily following, wondering how it was possible in that moment to feel so alone.


	12. Chapter 11: The Unthinkable Choice

The journey to Lothlorien went by in a blur, Nemireth numbly following Boromir, if only because he had the misfortune to be directly in front of her. The news that they were approaching the Golden woods should have filled her with a giddy excitement, the idea that she was visiting the home of the Lady of Light, of whom Gandalf had told her so many stories. A pain ran through her gut, sharper than any blade that made her gasp, the sound lost to the wind as they ran, a pain dragged up by the mere thought of the Wizard. At the back of her mind, she chided herself for her grief, hated herself for her loss of control, uncomfortably aware that her reaction was more like that of the hobbits than the others charged with protecting them. No, there was no excitement in her now. It felt like a stranger, a betrayal to even contemplate such gaiety at a time like this, an affront to his memory. In its place there was…nothing. An emptiness that was so much worse than she could have imagined. It felt like an old wound had been torn open, something she had buried deep down inside but now came flooding back. She looked around, hoping for comfort, some small sign of hope but she saw none. Surrounded by eight of her fellows and yet she may as well have been walking the Dune Sea alone for how distant they felt from her.

In fact, the only time she spoke was when they briefly paused, allowing Aragorn to scout ahead and ensure there were no unpleasant surprises in store. It felt so token to her, like bringing a single nail to fix a ship holed in a storm. As they waited by the stream, her brown eyes fell upon Gimli, who was checking the head of his axe, looking for a distraction as much as anything. Guilt welled up inside her as she cleared her throat.

"I'm sorry, Gimli," She said, drawing the attention of the Fellowship, "I'm sorry about Balin…and Moria…I'm just…sorry…"

The Dwarf heaved a heavy sigh, as if he had been dreading hearing those words, "No, lassie," His voice was steady but there was no twinkle in his eye, "They fell as dwarves should, fighting to defend our ancient homeland. Songs will be sung of their courage from the feet of the Iron Hills to the deepest chambers of Erebor. Balin may be gone, but he'll never be forgotten."

The Aeanoran had no real answer to that, nothing else to say but to nod dumbly at his words and let him get back to his axe, her shame all the rawer for how well he managed the loss of his cousin compared to her. She knew the others were looking, Boromir and Legolas, even Aragorn catching glimpses when they thought she couldn't see. They were judging her, measuring her up after the first hurdle she had faced. It did not take a great genius to know she had failed.

They crossed the boundary and into the trees of Lothlorien as the sun was falling. Surrounded by ancient trees it was hard not to feel they were being watched, Nemireth edgy as she rested her hand on her blade, eyes flicking left and right constantly. She was not the only one as ahead Gimli stood so close to Frodo they could have been sown together at the shoulder, his axe brandished in both hands. The Princess could not quite hear what he spoke of, nor did she really care, only hearing the end of it.

"…Well, here's one dwarf she won't ensnare. I have the eyes of the hawk and the ears of a fox."

As soon as he said it they were surrounded.

It left Nemireth feeling rather foolish as elves appeared to step out of the shadows themselves with bows drawn, arrows held steady. Reluctantly she took her hand from her scabbard, scowling at the nearest cloaked figure as if that would be enough along to strike him down.

"The dwarf breaths so loud we could have shot him in the dark," A tall blonde elf approached, the captain of the party presumably and wearing the same smug expressions she had seen so often in Rivendell. They briefly made eye contact as she glared at him, the urge to snap increasing as he switched to Sindarin.

 _"Welcome Legolas, son of Thranduil."_

 _"Our Fellowship stands in your debt, Haldir of Lórien,"_ Legolas responded in kind.

Haldir turned to Aragorn, _"Ah, Aragorn of the Dúnedain. You are known to us."_

The Ranger bowed deeply, _"Haldir."_

"So much for the legendary courtesy of the elves. Speak words we can all understand!" Gimli growled. Though she could understand the conversation between the trio, she felt much the same way as Gimli, eyes fixed on Haldir with intense dislike.

Gimli's dislike was returned in kind as the Lórien Elf looked down at him, "We have not had dealings with the dwarves since the dark days."

"And do you know what this dwarf says to that?" Gimli uttered something in his own language, something she did not understand but which seemed to have the desired effect, Haldir stiffening as if he had just smelt something particularly unpleasant while Aragorn wheeled on his companion and slapped a hand on his shoulder.

" _That_ was not so courteous." He hissed.

"And you are being a paragon of civility?" Nemireth snapped at Aragorn.

He looked at the Princess, opening his mouth to retort before abruptly closing it again, "Now is not the time for this."

Haldir was looking between the two of them, an eyebrow raised but then his eyes fell upon Frodo who was hiding at the back of the group. His face fell, taking on an expression that would not have been out of place had Frodo been a troll crashing though the trees in full battle-armour, "You bring great evil." He glared at Aragorn accusingly, "You can go no further."

It took some convincing before Haldir was convinced to let them pass, taking them deeper and deeper into the forest with a considerable escort, ' _To protect us from the enemy,'_ Nemireth wondered, _'Or to protect our destination from us?'_

It was night by the time they reached that destination; a great glade of golden trees that rose above all others, catching the falling sun so they appeared as beacons unto the world.

"Caras Galadhon," Haldir announced proudly, "The heart of Elvendom on earth. Realm of the Lord Celeborn and of Galadriel, Lady of Light."

Caras Galadhon was beautiful, so much more so than even Rivendell had been though the relationship between the two was clear in the architecture. Night had fallen by the time they reached it, climbing a staircase that spiralled around a broad tree and up into the heavens, the city shining silver and blue around them.

They were brought before a broad arch at the peak of the forest, able to see to the very limits of the trees and beyond, even to the Misty Mountains. Her stomach twisted even to look upon that accursed range. Busy hands played with her belt, played with each other, played with anything to keep them busy.

Then from atop the steps before them came a blinding glow, so sharp that she could not look upon it. She could barely make out two elven figures approaching them, dressed in long robes, hand in hand. Each was blonde and regal in their bearing, looking upon the Fellowship with fierce, intelligent eyes.

"The enemy knows you have entered here," The male elf stated in a grand voice, looking between each of them, "What hope you had in secrecy is now gone. Nine there are here, yet ten there were set out from Rivendell. Tell me, where is Gandalf? For I much desire to speak with him, I can no longer see him from afar."

Nemireth closed her eyes and looked upon the wooden floor beneath them, unable to bear the news they would have to break, unwilling still to believe it.

"Gandalf the Grey did not pass the borders of this land," Murmured the woman beside him, the epitome of beauty, "He has passed into shadow."

"He was taken by both shadow and flame; a Balrog of Morgoth," Legolas clarified, his voice heavy, "For we went needlessly into the net of Moria."

"Needless were none of the deeds of Gandalf in life. We do not yet know his full purpose. Do not let the great emptiness of Khazad-dûm fill your heart, Gimli, son of Glóin. For the world has grown full of peril. And in all lands, love is now mingled with grief."

Boromir looked away and Nemireth squeezed her eyes shut, trying to close out the world.

"What now becomes of this Fellowship? Without Gandalf, hope is lost." The male, who must have been Celeborn asked of them.

It was his wife, for it could only be the great Galadriel who could speak with such wisdom and authority on subjects which she should have known little, "The quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and it will fail to the ruin of all. Yet hope remains while the company is true. Do not let your hearts be troubled. Go now and rest for you are weary with sorrow and much toil."

They were shown to what she supposed was a room, more an enclave created by the great bow in the root of a tree. It felt like a greater weight than just her pack had been lifted as she set it down, unclipping her scabbard and laying it gently against her bed. It felt like years since she had taken her armour off, the cloth tunic beneath was damp, sticky, blackened with the blood of the orcs they had fought, it reeked of stale blood and ash, from being so close to the Balrog.

But not close enough.

She thought over the scene, time and time again. Gandalf standing alone. Was there something she could have done? Had she frozen again?

A quick bath in a spring nearby and a change of clothes made a world of difference, the silken top given to her by the elves far away from the tunics of the Aeanoran Army; smooth and soft where she was used to rough and itchy. Brown hair spilled over her shoulders, her fringe hanging over one eye now that she had let it loose and cleaned away the filth of Moria. She had winced as she watched the black trails making their way through the clear water, hoping no one was downstream of her, though the elves assured her it was not a problem.

It was a relief to be clean but still she felt ill at ease, nervous where there was no need to be. Reaching the camp, she found Gimli had passed out on his bed and the others looking to their kit, cleaning and mending while there was a chance. She should have done the same but she had no desire to look at her kit, no motive to do so. Karos would have disapproved immensely and she could picture those sharp eyes glaring at her as he lectured at length about the need to keep her equipment in order.

 _"This gear is your life,"_ She could recall the words from heart, the words he drilled into her skull as a young girl who had swung her sword and then tossed it carelessly aside at the end of the session, _"If you look after it, it will look after you. Treat it like a fish bone to be tossed aside then when you need it most, you will find yourself wanting in the worst way possible."_

How she wished he was here now, just so she could hear his voice. Even Xiphos' cheek would be welcome, or the voices of her handmaidens. Just something, someone to remind her of home, to help her remember who she was supposed to be; a Princess and a warrior, not a frightened girl in a world she knew so little about, where she had known nothing but loss and fear and pain.

A song reached their ears, a chorus from high amongst the trees that drew all eyes upwards.  
"A lament for Gandalf," Legolas said softly.

"What do they say about him?" Merry asked.

"I have not the heart to tell you. For me the grief is still too near." The Elf looked away and Nemireth watched him curiously. He had kept his mourning close, closer than any of them. In fact, she had been sure he had felt nothing for the loss but it was heartening to know that was not the case.

"I bet they don't mention his fireworks," Sam had been working on his pack, "There should be a verse about them."

He stood up and cleared his throat, "The finest rockets ever seen, they burst in stars of blue and green. Or after thunder…silver showers," He was starting to struggle, not helped when Gimli snorted loudly in his sleep, only to be awaken by a punch from Aragorn, "Came falling like…a rain of flowers…oh it's hopeless. It doesn't do them justice by a long road," He dropped to his seat, dejected.

"I thought it was beautiful, Sam," Nemireth whispered softly, "Gandalf would have loved it."

"You reckon so?" The Hobbit perked up.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak further as she let the fair voices of the elves wash over her. The more they sang, the more the Aeanorean felt the sadness grow until eventually she just had to leave, to find a quiet space where the others could not see her. She found a small enclave in which she leant, looking to the heavens as she begged for the pain to stop. Why did it keep hurting?

"My Lady?"

She flinched, hurriedly wiping at her cheeks while looking away to hide her shame, "Boromir."

He settled in beside her, sitting upon the broad root, "I'm sorry for your loss. I know you and Gandalf were close."

"We weren't really," She sighed, "I only met him a few times before this and never for very long. It was just…He always had stories of this land, such exciting tales full of adventure. When he spoke with me, it wasn't as just a Princess it was…" She shook her head, "It's foolish, I know."

"Grief is grief, My Lady," He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed, "No matter how little we think it should matter, our hearts don't always listen."

She sniffed and nodded, "Thank you."

"But we have to accept reality. Gandalf is gone, and with him goes a great weapon," He hesitated, "But not our greatest."

She glanced about before speaking in a harsh whisper, "Boromir!"

"I speak the truth!" His hand was still on her shoulder squeezing tightly, "The truth no one else wants to see!"

"Boromir," She winced, "You're hurting me." He whipped his hand back as if he had been burned, a wild look in his eyes, "We _can't_ use it! Gandalf said-"

"Gandalf is _dead_!" He snarled, causing her to recoil back as he loomed over her, "What wisdom he held has passed with him! You saw the power the enemy has! And that was in the depths of some long-forgotten realm beneath a mountain! What do you suppose he has waiting upon the plains of Mordor itself?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think we can defeat it?"

"Boromir, I don't know!" She went to leave but he threw a hand across to block her path.

"Answer me! With Gandalf dead, do you think we can win?"

She glared at him, lips pressed tightly together but feeling as a child beside the beast of a man. The silence stretched but it was as good as an answer.

Boromir relaxed, "Then what would you do? If the choice was yours? How would you defeat the Dark Lord?"

The longing that had been growing for so long returned and Nemireth bit her lip as the obvious solution danced in front of her eyes, so obvious and yet so wrong. _All you need is the right key_. The words bounced around in her mind and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force them from her thoughts but without success.

Boromir's voice softened, "It is not the outcome any of us wanted. The Ring _will_ be destroyed, I promise but we must make use of what weapons we have. We are not in a position to pick and choose."

"Then…then what do you plan to do?" Her voice was quiet, scarce more than a whimper, without strength.

"I will speak with Aragorn again and try to convince him to lead the party to Minas Tirith. He cannot continue to deny my reasoning."

"And if he does?"

He did not answer for a long time before letting out a heavy breath, "Then I may need your help to convince him."

She shoved him, though their difference in size made it little more than a gesture. He took a half-step back, stunned, and she tried to escape only for him to close off her escape route. The fight quickly failed under his burning glare, "You cannot be serious. Boromir, these are our companions! These are our friends!"

"Do you think I make this decision lightly? Or with any pleasure?" The Gondorian growled like a feral animal, "I do what I do because I must! Because no one else seems willing to! The only chance we have left to defeat Sauron is to turn his own weapon against him! Imagine it, the armies of Gondor and Aeanor laying waste to Mordor! You and I, side by side, the greatest heroes of this age or any age to have passed. Once Mordor is in ruins, _then_ we can destroy the Ring without fear. Don't you want that? The chance to remove the evil of Sauron forever?"

She turned away from him, trying to hide from those searching eyes, trying to hide how much it tempted her. The idea was horrific, impossible, a betrayal of her entire life. Yet it was lodged in her head and refused to leave. Nemireth, Princess of Aeanor, the vanquisher of Sauron, bringer of peace to Middle Earth, whose armies inspired dread in her enemies and awe amongst her friends. It had to be done. What was she to do? Without Gandalf there was no hope. Even Celeborn had admitted as much. She longed to know what Gandalf would have done…only she knew what he would have said. What alternative did they truly have? There were more orcs in Moria alone than there were soldiers in the whole of Aeanor! That was before they even got to trolls or Balrogs. How many of those did Sauron have? What could defeat an army of them? Boromir was a soldier of Gondor, he knew better than she how badly the fight was going elsewhere in the world. She had only her fairy tales from a Wizard she had barely known. She nodded, once.

Boromir looked relieved and clapped her on the shoulder, "I knew you would see reason. You have greater wisdom than the others give you credit for, Nemireth. Never forget that."

He departed with fresh vigour in his step but she stayed anchored to the spot, hardly daring to believe what had happened, what she had done. A fresh numbness overtook her, a new grief overwhelmed her as she slumped back against the tree, hugging herself tightly and wishing the world would just swallow her up.

When she finally worked up the courage to make it back to the group, she sat alone. The Princess could not even look any of them in the eye, sitting in silence as she tried to justify herself. She could see some of the others looking over at her, perhaps wondering why it was she had so suddenly isolated herself, like she were a plague that would taint them all. Nemireth refused to meet any of their questioning gazes, instead climbing into bed and trying to force herself to sleep.

It was a vain hope. She twisted and turned, the same words floating through her mind, making her sick to her stomach; _traitor…coward…_

 _'It's his fault,'_ She thought, _'It's his fault Gandalf's gone. It was his choice to go into Moria. He could have listened to Boromir._ " Her eyes snapped open but the voice did not leave as she locked onto the shape she knew was Frodo, _"Why should_ he _have the Ring? Why does he deserve to carry it? Why not you?"_

She swung her legs out from the bed and checked the others. They were asleep. There were no witnesses.

 _"If you have It then you won't need Boromir's plan. You can keep the Fellowship together. No one has to fight. They'll listen to you then._ "

Nemireth was walking towards Frodo, eyes unblinking, no other thoughts going through her mind but it still didn't feel like her, like she was watching herself from afar.

 _"It's like Celeborn said, without Gandalf there is no hope. Not unless you have it. Not unless you strike him down with it. Queen Nemireth, Vanquisher of Sauron, the saviour of Middle Earth. That's what Gandalf would have wanted."_

Her hand was shaking at her side as she resisted the urge to reach out, _"All you have to do is take it, all you have to do-"_

"Nemireth?"

The Princess all but leapt into the air, looking about as if just seeing her surroundings for the first time as Legolas approached, eyes narrowed.

"What were you doing?" He asked sharply.

"I…" She tried to think of a response but her mind was maddeningly slow, hands behind her back, "I couldn't sleep."

"I imagine not," His look was distinctly unfriendly, a suspicious that her stomach in knots, "Are you feeling okay?"

"It's…I mean…I don't know," the Aeanorean shook her head, "Ever since Moria I haven't felt like myself."

His expression lightened, "I understand. I have felt much the same way myself. Being in Lothlórien has calmed my nerves considerably."

"Yes," Nemireth lied, "As with I."

"I must admit," Legolas glanced up into the very heights of the settlement, "I felt like we had little chance when we left Moria, despair was my companion until we crossed into the borders of this realm. Being in the presence of the Lady Galadriel has filled me with hope anew."

"It has?"

He nodded, "Aragorn is brave and noble, he knows the paths as Gandalf did. Boromir is strong and steadfast, unyielding before our enemy. Gimli is as stout and stubborn as ever I have seen in all my years. All the armies of Mordor could hang from his boots and he would drag them all to Mount Doom. Then there's you."

"Me?" She asked, squirming uncomfortably.

He nodded, a small smile crossing his features, "Yes, you. Princess Nemireth of Aeanor, who has no more need to be here than the fish who swim the Great Sea. Who has shown nothing but compassion in our travels, who has more courage than she knows."

She wanted to correct him, to tell him what she and Boromir had agreed but she could not work up the courage to do more than part her lips. She was shaking, _you coward_ …

"Yes," He rolled his shoulders as if shedding a great weight, "So long as our fellowship holds, we shall prevail."

The Princess gasped as if in physical pain and he looked at her, concerned, "I'm sorry, Legolas, I have to go." She did not wait for an answer but took off as fast as her legs could carry her, ignoring the branches that whipped at her face.

When she finally stopped she was in a clearing, only a bubbling brook for company, bathed in the pale moonlight. Her legs gave out beneath her and she fell to her knees, fingers squeezing into the moss as self-loathing overwhelmed her.

"Long has it been since I have met with the people of your realm. Has this become a standard greeting?"

The Princess looked up to see a radiant figure before her, slender with wavy golden hair falling down her back, pale skinned but with bright blue eyes. She could not bear to look any further and bowed her head.

"I know why it is you weep, young one," Galadriel asked in a warm voice, but her words came slowly, each chosen carefully, "And what torments you so. A chill overtaking your heart with icy fingers working their way into your mind, tightening their grip with every breath. You know of what I speak."

"I…" She stuttered, her mouth bone dry, vision blurry as fresh tears made their way down well-travelled paths, "I don't know what to do…"

"Are you frightened?" The Elf asked, stepping in closer.

It took her a long second to answer, "…yes."

"What are you frightened of?"

"I…" More hesitancy, the answer dancing on the tip her tongue, yet she dreaded to answer, as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff, "Me. I'm frightened of me. I'm frightened of the thoughts that haunt my dreams, the words that whisper in my waking mind. Poisonous words that become as honey with each passing day. I'm frightened of what I will do…" She bowed her head, not fit to look upon one so pure, "Of what I will become."

"Then what must you do?" A hand came into her vision, offered to her, pale and delicate yet warm when she accepted and strong, as she was hauled to her feet.

"I don't know," She bowed her head.

"You don't know?" Galadriel raised an eyebrow, "Curious. When last I met a Prince of Aeanor, he knew precisely what to do."

"Well, I'm not Othion, am I?" She snapped, staring into that flawless face, uncaring that she was shouting at one of the most powerful beings in Middle Earth, "I never will be! No matter how hard I try, no matter how hard I fight, I will never live up to him!"

"No," In the face of such petulance, Galadriel smiled, throwing the woman off guard, "No you will not. So, it is time to stop asking what would Othion, the legend of Aeanor, do and start asking what would Nemireth, the Princess, do? Two paths now lie before you. One you have seen, the other you have refused to contemplate."

The Princess could only stare, the sound of burbling water all that filled the space between them, "I can't!"

"Can't you?" The Lady raised an eyebrow, "Or won't you? Does the path unknown scare you so?"

"I made a promise," Nemireth pleaded, hoping she would see reason even as, in her heart, the truth beat all the clearer, "I promised him I would be there…"

"And so is the true evil of the Ring revealed," Galadriel sighed, "For it takes that which is strongest of us and makes it weak, turns those we love into those we revile. You know the trail you walk. You know how it will end."

Every word of the Lady was like a knife being thrust into her gut, "Then…what should I do?"

"This is not a choice that can be made for you, Nemireth of Aeanor. None know your heart as well as you. It is as Lord Elrond said when you set forth from Rivendell. You may go no further than you will. How far was left to you."

She felt scrambled, torn in all directions, mind thumping against her skull and heart beating to break from her chest. Thoughts faced through her mind like the fastest hawk only to vanish again and have their place taken by others, arguments, counter-arguments, reasons, points, analysis, instinct. None made sense, none she could grasp. Then, through it all, the words of Gandalf, as clear as if he were stood with them in that clearing.

 _"There are many types of bravery in the world, Nemireth of Aeanor. Facing a powerful foe on the field of battle? Yes, that takes valour. Looking deep within and allowing ourselves to admit that part we feel is weakness? That is a different kind of courage and it is no lesser than the first."_

She took a deep breath as heart and mind aligned, her back straightening, "I understand."

"Then you have decided?" Galadriel asked.

"I have. I know what I need to do."

The ancient Elf nodded, expression sombre, and turned to leave.

"Wait! Um…Lady Galadriel," She reached into a pocket of her tunic and pulled out the pressed flower of _Elenuial_ , as pressed as it had been when Gandalf had presented it to her, no worse for its dip in the pool outside Moria, carefully transferred when she had changed clothes, "I was wondering…did you…um…did you pick this?"

The Lady of the Woods broke into the broadest smile yet and Nemireth felt a warmth flow through her, "I did. Gandalf would not tell me its destination, he would only tell me it would go to someone who would cherish it. I am pleased to see he was correct."

"Why this flower? There must surely be many? Not that I am complaining," She added hastily, "I'm just…curious…" She stuttered.

"It is the flower of light, Princess Nemireth, a symbol of those who stand against the growing darkness, wherever it may be."

"Sauron," The Princess nodded in understanding.

"It can be, but not all darkness can be seen with the eye and some can be closer than we care to admit." And with that, the Elf was gone, gliding between the trees as if she were floating and leaving Nemireth alone with her thoughts.

For the first time since they had entered Moria, for the first time since she had seen Gandalf fall into the depths of the world, she knew what she had to do.

She had to leave the Fellowship.


	13. Chapter 12: Goodbyes

It had been so obvious a solution in the clearing, beneath the gaze of the Galadriel but with each step that brought her closer to the Fellowship and the news she would have to break, so doubts beset Nemireth's mind. How could she turn her back on them? After everything they'd been through? How could she face them? What was she going to say? She tried to form the words in her head, to have them at least prepared but everything sounded weak, childish, like she was giving up on them.

' _It's true,'_ That insidious voice in her head reminded her, with the subtlety of fingernails upon a blackboard, _'You ARE turning your back on them. They were counting on you and you have let them down. How many lives is your foolishness going to cost them? How many will die because you weren't there to help them?'_

The Aeanoran squeezed her eyes shut, a hand to her forehead as she pulled upon the brown hair hanging there as if she were able to pull those mutinous thoughts from her mind through sheer strength alone, "It's not true." She whispered to herself, "This is the only way."

 _'The only way for what? The only way for you to desert your comrades? The only way for you to wash your hands of what you have become part of? The greatest artefact in the history of the world is within your grasp but you're too frightened to take it, too afraid of the glory it will give."_

"No…"

 _'You are just like your father after all, happy to waste away upon the throne while your kingdom declines around you. How many years will this moment stay with you? The rest of your life will be spent wondering what might have been had you only a little more courage, a little more strength. An eternity of regret-"_

"Enough!" She yelled at the night, tugging so firmly on her locks that it hurt.

"Nemireth?"

The Princess whipped around as two shapes approached; two familiar figures who inspired nothing but dread in her now. Aragorn stood a little off, hand on his weapon while Legolas was in front, each showing nothing but concern.

"Are you alright?" Legolas asked after a time, "We heard shouting in the darkness and feared the worst."

"What was the worst you feared?" She asked sharply.

The Elf did not seem sure how to answer that, the silence stretching before he found the words, "That orcs had penetrated the borders of this land, that the enemy were upon us."

"You thought orcs had reached the heart of Elven power in Middle Earth?" She folded her arms in spite of herself, "That they had got past Haldir and the magic of this place?"

The quiet was torturous as she forced herself to look upon their faces, only to find that they now were unable to do the same in turn, she licked her lips, mouth dry, "What did you truly fear?"

"Nemireth," The Ranger stepped forward, hands away from his scabbard, "Legolas was worried. He says you were not yourself when you awoke."

"His worry is both unwarranted and unwelcome," She glared at the Prince of Mirkwood, who was taken aback. ' _What are you doing, Nemireth?'_ She asked herself, ' _Is this supposed to make it easier?'_

Aragorn's eyes had widened briefly at her brusqueness but he kept himself in better check than his companion, the paragon of control, "Nemireth, what is the matter?"

"Why do you assume that something must be wrong?"

"I know you well enough to tell that much, at least."

"You barely know me at all, Ranger."

"I know you, better than you think," He looked to the heavens though what solace he sought there was beyond her, "We shall depart at dawn's first light. The Elves have been kind enough to gift us craft to bring us speedily down the Anduin and into the northern territories of Gondor. It will be a tight fit to get nine of us plus our gear into three boats, but we shall manage. We are perhaps fortunate that hobbits take so little space." He offered a half smile but received none in turn, Nemireth did not feel much like smiling.

"I make things easier still, Aragorn," She took a deep breath, the bottom of her stomach dropping out. Her heart felt like it was beating out of her chest. There was no backing out now, "For your boats shall only have to bear the weight of eight, not nine."

"What?" Legolas leapt forward, the outrage clear in his voice, "You cannot mean those words."

"I do."

"Why? Has our Fellowship not suffered enough? Why must you drag us further into the mire?"

"I…" How could she tell him? How could she admit to what she had agreed to? What Boromir and her had planned in the shadows? What way was there to explain this was for the Fellowship, "I can't say…"

"No," The Elf's voice was cold, "No, I imagine you cannot. What excuse can there be? It is only the fate of our homes at stake but then that has little bearing on you does it, Princess of Aeanor?"

"How _dare_ you…" She felt herself shaking, fists curling up, "How can you say I do not love this land as you do?"

"Because I am not the one turning my back on it," He scowled and retreated, leaving her to stutter wordlessly at his back as he disappeared into the undergrowth. It was only her and the Ranger now.

"Aragorn," She began and suddenly found the words spilling out, close to tears, "Please, you have to see. I want to go with you, every fibre in my being is screaming at me to go but I cannot, I just can't. I can't explain why but…" She shook her head, "Please don't be cross."

His shoulders slumped as if a great weight had been placed upon and he reached out. She winced, sure he was about to strike her but found only a hand pressing down on her shoulder, the same as Boromir had held that same evening. Had it truly been that soon? It felt like a lifetime ago.

"I understand," He said softly.

"You do?" Her eyes were shining now. it was hard to focus on him.

The man nodded, "No one knows your heart better than you. If it tells you that you can go no further then this is the way it must be. If my heart told me the same, then I would do the same as you."

"Would you?" She asked only to get a firm squeeze upon her barely covered shoulder.

"You have played your part in the quest thus far, Nemireth. That will not be forgotten."

"I dread telling the others," She hesitated, "If they react as Legolas did…I couldn't take it."

"Do not worry about Legolas. I will speak with him. This has been a trying time for us all and none of us are quite ourselves."

"Thank you, Aragorn," She held his hand, looking at him in a different light. There he stood, having been told that the group he now led would be less one sword for reasons that could not be put quite into words and yet his thoughts were not those of anger, or hurt, or betrayal. Perhaps deep down he felt those things but she saw only the kindness, the softness in his voice. Boromir thought him a fool, a man blind to his wisdom, someone who was not fit to lead. Standing now, in front of him, Nemireth could not think of a better leader.

"Where will you go now? Back to the coast?"

"The elves tell me a company of my people had gone on to Rohan. Its borders are threatened by the traitor Saruman so I will go there, to lend what help I can." A wistful smile, "It is not quite as important as your task but it is the best we can do."

He chuckled, shaking his head, "My friend, against the evil we fight, no part is insignificant."

He left her in peace to gather her thoughts, to build herself up for telling the others. Of them all, she had hoped Legolas would understand, that he would see why she needed to part from them but that optimism had been misplaced and she doubted it would return in time to tell Gimli and the hobbits.

And Boromir.

Even thinking it sent a shiver of dread through her.

* * *

In the end, it was so much worse than she had thought it would be.

They were all gathered together, by Aragorn's design or happy accident she could not be sure but all attention was on her as she stood and delivered her message. In the end, no words had seemed right, nothing would sugar-coat the news so she just had to spit out, three words that tore through the heart of their fellowship.

I. Must. Leave.

They reacted much as she had expected them to. Merry and Pippin were upon her instantly, bombarding her with questions and protests until ushered away by Aragorn. Gimli simply slumped back and puffed on his pipe, silent but somehow that was worse than the hobbits, the wordless judgement, the disappointment that washed over her from the dwarf striking at her soul. Sam looked downbeat while Frodo gave no reaction at all, simply staring at her as if her skin were made of glass and he was seeing right to her core. Boromir? Boromir got up and departed without so much as a word. All that left was Legolas, intense gaze locking on her as if he could hold her in place by stare alone. It almost worked, her legs shaking before she willed herself to her bed.

So, it was in silence she collected her things, scrambling her things together, throwing them in a pile and retreating as fast as she could, just to be away from them all, to get some breathing space. Throughout, the urge to retract her intention had been on the very tip of her tongue such that the young Princess was sure that if she had spoken at all, it would have been to take back all she had said, to announce her intention to go on. That would have helped nobody, it would only have made things worse.

Unpacking her things in her new enclave, if throwing things listlessly about counted as unpacking, all she could see was the hurt in their expressions, the pain in their faces as another one of their group left them. Gandalf's departure had not been by design however, and hers was. In many ways it was worse. One was an unavoidable consequence of the quest they had undertaken but her? She had chosen to part.

It was the only way. Perhaps one day she would find a way to explain that to them.

"So."

The voice made her jump, full of contempt and bitterness. She did not even turn around, knowing full well who it belonged to.

"You don't even have the decency to face me."

Even though she was shaking, she gave him that at least then immediately wished she had not. His hands were above his head, propping him against the tree root under which she now dwelt, hair hanging limping and eyes wild. He too was shaking and it was only now she noticed how his breadth was, how powerful a man he was. He had the look of a wild bear about him, savage and feral.

"You traitor." He snarled.

"No!" She stepped forward, hands clasped together, "B-Boromir, please! It's not like that!"

"Isn't it?" The Gondorian snorted, advancing on her, "That is funny, because from where I stand, that is exactly what it is like! Is this what your people are about? At the first sign of trouble, you just run? I should have known this was what you would do. This was what Aeanor did last time too. As soon Sauron was gone, you just jumped on your ships and sailed away. No matter the orc hordes we were left to face. No matter the strife that swept our nation. I thought you different, but nothing has changed."

"I have to go!" She pleaded, "Every day I spend with the Ring is torture!"

"So you're not only a traitor, but you're weak." He spat and the gesture drove her back in revulsion, "Too afraid of what you could be! Too scared to grasp the chance that stands before you! You're no warrior and you're no ruler. You're a sheep, a mewling lamb being led by the nose by those who would do us harm! The elves! The wizards! None of them care for this land! None!" He slammed his palm into the branch so hard that splinters rained upon her, catching in her hair.

"Boromir!" Nemireth tried again to reach him, putting a hand on his shoulder as he shook with barely contained rage, "Listen to yourself! Listen to what you're saying! This isn't you! This isn't the noble and honourable Boromir I know!" She hesitated, "Come with me?"

"What?" The single word was barely a whisper, a warning she failed to heed.

"Come with me! You and I, we can go to Rohan together! We can help the defence there, do our part in the war! The Captain of Gondor and the Princess of Aeanor! We could be worthy of song or tale in our deeds if only you will abandon this quest for the Ring!"

"You…" He could barely get the words out, fumbling over them like a drunkard upon the dawn, "You _dare_ to lecture me on worthiness?" He slapped her hand away so violently that she cried aloud in pain, "You? A spoiled brat from some meaningless land?" He was advancing on her, fists bared, "I see what this is now. You wish to take me from the Ring, is that it?"

"Yes!" She cried, only to realise her mistake too late as his nostrils flared, "No! Not like tha-"

His fist was as lightning, striking the wood so close to her face that she could hear it crack beneath his fury. She fell back with a gasp, looking around for a weapon, "You wish to steal me from my destiny! You work for the enemy! You may have fooled Gandalf and you may have fooled the Ranger but you do not fool me! I am the Captain of Gondor! I am the son of the Steward!" He beat upon his own chest with every phrase, "And I will seize my destiny whether you stand in my way or no-"

He got no further, Nemireth lashing out his midriff. The blow was slight but it knocked the wind from his sails, limbs folding in to protect his stomach. She tried to run past him but found her route blocked as he straightened up, rising to his full height and towering over her. There was no fire burning in those eyes anymore, quite the opposite. His expression had become one of horror.

"My Lady," He said weakly, holding his palm where he had twice attacked the trees of the Forest, "I…I am so sorry. My behaviour…" he shook his head, "I will go."

And leave he did, but that did not keep Nemireth from holding her sword close as the stars wheeled overhead and sleep eluded her as she lay with her back to the wall and her eyes fixed on the entrance to her little enclave, waiting for those footsteps to return. None did but neither did peace find her even as the birdsong filled the air around her and the sun bathed the world in a buttery glow.

The Aeanoran dressed herself in her armour with trembling fingers. The Fellowship was leaving today but she had had her fill of these woods. Even though her stomach grumbled for food, she ignored it, happy to remain in her isolated shelter only for an elven servant to enter, a knock his only announcement.

"My Lady," He bowed deeply, "The Lady Galadriel requests your presence at the river. The Fellowship is departing."

The Princess glared at him, an unpleasant reminder of servants who would have arrived to her rooms in Minas Luin and informed he that she was 'invited' to some gathering or another. Like those gatherings, she got the impression this invitation was mandatory. So, she followed the same blonde elf through the narrow tracks made by countless years of footfall and dreading facing any of her friends again. One was not so unenthusiastic.

"Nemireth!" Even hearing her name made her wince, as if it were being used as a whip to crack over her head but the word was said without malice as Legolas, fully dressed in his armour with quiver slung over his shoulder and bow in hand, fell into step alongside her, "You come to see us off?"

"At Lady Galadriel's insistence," She realised quickly how bitter that sounded, "But yes. I suppose it is the least I can do."

"Yes," He hesitated, "In truth, that is why I waited for you."

"You waited for me?" The Princess could not help but keep glance sidelong at him. In the morning light, his hair seemed to glow as if it were threaded of gold.

"I wanted to apologise for my behaviour at hearing your news. The decision you chose, it cannot have been easy for you to make, and my reaction was unlikely to have helped."

"It didn't," He flinched at that, but she had not said it in anger, more of a quiet whisper. "But I'm sorry too. I was cruel for cruelty's sake."

"I have known you long enough to know you would not abandon this quest, nor this Fellowship on a whim and I should have handled it better. For that, I am sorry."

"Legolas, I…" Nemireth was stuck for words, "I don't know what to say."

"You need say nothing. The thought that words spoken in impulse and anger would be our last weighed heavily on me and would have continued to do so."

"Thank you, all the same," She smiled at him. By the Valar it felt like it had been so long since she smiled, "It means a lot to hear you say it."

They were approaching the river, the gentle lapping of the water against the banks enough even for her to pick up on it. The servant, who had remained discreetly ahead of them, now took his leave.

"There are some things I said last night, that I did mean," The Elven Prince was looking her in the eye now, stopping their progress dead.

"There are?" The smile slipped from the Aeanoran's olive features, sure she was about to be rebuked.

"You were afraid of fighting the monster in the waters of Moria. You were afraid of the sight of the Balrog, and of the orc horde that fell upon us before. But in each case, I would say you were no more frightened than I was. And in each, you played your part, just as I did. You have more courage than you know, Nemireth. Don't be afraid of that fear," He was holding her hand now and she could do little but hold back. He felt so warm, so soft to the touch, "Let it drive you and it will be your greatest weapon."

It was only then that he realised their pose and pulled his hand back, as if she had scalded him. He could not look her in the eye as he hurried off, but only made it a few steps before he was stopped dead in his tracks.

"Legolas!" She approached him and threw her arms around his neck, pulling him into the tight embrace. His hands dropped to his sides, as if afraid to touch her back, "For luck. Stay safe and," She paused, biting her lip as she checked they were alone, "Watch Boromir for me."

"Do not worry," His features darkened, "I will."

They parted and were soon amongst the bustle of activity that was the preparations being made for the Fellowship's leaving. Aragorn had been speaking with Celeborn but spotted her and greeted her warmly with Frodo not far behind.

Nemireth could barely bring herself to look into those tired, lined eyes. He had aged so much since Rivendell, skin waxen and unhealthy, "Frodo…" She began but he silenced her with a hand on her arm.

"Thank you," Was all he said, meeting her eyes and then she understood. He was not thanking her for what she had done, but what she was doing. Of all people, Frodo would understand.

Galadriel had waited patiently while the Fellowship sorted themselves into a line for their departure. The Elves imparted onto them gifts; cloaks for them all, a belt of gold for Boromir, daggers for Merry and Pippin, rope for Sam, a bow for Legolas, Legolas who kept glancing at her and she found herself returning in kind. She did not see what gifts were passed to Frodo, Gimli and Aragorn but before she knew it they were piling into the boats. Her legs shook as she longed to join them, resisting the urge with all her might to spring forward into the nearest vessel but she stayed rooted in spot, smiling whenever any of them glanced at her. Boromir very consciously did not turn her way at all. Then there was a turn in the river and they were gone from sight.

Feeling oddly deflated, the Princess made to return to her room, to collect her things and be gone only to find her path blocked by Galadriel and a couple of servants holding items beneath cloaks.  
"You surely do not think us such poor hosts, Nemireth of Aeanor," The golden Elf laughed, "That we would have you depart empty-handed?"

"My friends travel onwards to danger and death, and I have turned my back on them," The younger Warrior bowed her head, "I am undeserving of gifts."

"Nonsense," Galadriel clicked her fingers and one of the two servants approached, throwing a cloak of the same type over her shoulders, "You are a member of the Fellowship. You need not be in their presence for that to be true," The other servant now approached and threw back the shroud of her gift.

Nemireth gasped at the sight, a magnificent shield, oval in shape and rimmed with finely shaped silver leaves. The central boss was a wreath that caught the light so it seemed alive with movement. Even the straps along the back had been formed from fine silks and firm leather, the very essence of elegance.

"This shield was forged by our cousins to the east in the dark days of old. Long has it seen service in war, protecting the world from harm. Now it shall do so again."

"My Lady," Nemireth was still gawping at it, turning it over in her hands as she tried to take in every inch, "I cannot accept this."

"It is my gift to give," Galadriel's smile widened, "And with you it will do good. Go in peace, Princess of Aeanor, and do not look back with such anguish, that chapter of your life is closed. A new chapter is about to begin."

* * *

A/N So ends, the Fellowship of the Ring portion of the story. Now things move on to Rohan and the Two Towers!

Thank you so much for the reviews so far!


	14. Chapter 13: The Next Step

The Fellowship may have moved on but the bustle of activity did not abate in Lothlorien. Horses were swiftly prepared as Nemireth gathered her things, an escort assembled that included Haldir, though he did not look pleased by the situation. It was two dozen guards in all, elven warriors armed with lance, bow and sword who waited for the young Royal to mount her own stead, a large and beautiful grey-speckled stallion half a head taller than any horse she had ever seen. The admiration was clearly one-sided however, as she clambered up only for him to toss his head and snort derisively, leaving her clinging to her reins.

"Súletal has never known a rider not of the Galadhrim," Haldir said with some small hint of amusement, "He is not sure how to handle you." 

"He's not sure how to handle _me_?" She looked at him incredulously, "If he wanted to toss me back into the Great Sea, there's not much I could do to stop him."

"No," For the first time, she thought she might have spotted the first hint of a smile on the Elven Captain's face, "You could not." 

"Well, could you enlighten me?" 

Haldir rolled his eyes, and sighed with exasperation, "You could try asking him."

"Asking him?"

"Yes."

"With words?"

"You may mime if you wish, though it may not be as effective." 

Clearing her throat and feeling rather foolish, she leant down close to the horse's ear, her whispered breath causing it to flick, "Um…don't throw me please?"

Súletal did not move, stubbornly remaining in place, the lone horse doing so as the escort formed. Keenly aware of countless, ageless eyes now upon her and with her cheeks colouring, Nemireth tried again, "Will you obey me?"

Still no reaction and now the Lady Galadriel and Celeborn were watching, the latter with the same unreadable expression and the former with a raised eyebrow and a half-smile.

Closing her eyes, Nemireth cursed wordlessly. Why had she been gifted the only deaf horse in the entire Woodland realm?!

That was when it struck her and again, she cursed, her own foolishness this time rather than her mount. Taking a deep breath, she attempted for the third time, this time her words in the soft and lilting language of the Sindar, _"Súletal, I am your friend,"_ Súletal half turned his head but his ear was now twisted firmly in her direction. A thrill ran through her, _"I place my trust in you. Please do the same for me."_

The horse did not react immediately and for one horrible moment, she thought that he had refused her offer. But then he dipped his head and for the first time, responded to the motions she was making with the stirrups. Scrambling to loosen her grip on the reigns and resisting the urge to cry out in delight, the young Princess looked about to see the many onlookers now murmuring amongst one another. In particular, Celeborn's eyebrow had now risen while Galadriel's half-smile had grown into a broad but silent chuckle. Even Haldir gave her a single, curt nod before giving a much more respectful bow to the Lord and Lady of the Wood and heading to the front of the column.

"Nemireth, Daughter of Brúndir, Princess of Aeanor," Celeborn spoke aloud, "Our people shall bring you to the borders of Rohan. There you will meet with your kin and travel onwards to Edoras, seat of Théoden King. Ride swiftly, for it is a full day to the capital and the hills are no longer safe at night. May you carry the blessings of the Valar with you."

Another tingle ran through her at receiving blessing from so noble an elf-lord and she bowed as deeply as she dared in her shadow, "Thank you, My Lord."

She had half expected Galadriel to elaborate on her husband's words but strangely found no sadness at her silence. The Lady of the Woods had already said so much to aid her, what more need she say now. Nemireth bowed to her and received the gesture in turn. What more could she do to convey her gratitude?

So, with new shield slung across her back, Nemireth made her way to the head of the group that now galloped from under the shadow of Calas Galadhon and out into the forest. Trees raced by in a brown and green blur and before long they had burst forth into the wide-open plains. She had half-expected to see Caradhras before her but the only mountains were far off in the distance, swirled in cloud.

Her heart ached to even think of that mountain, the mountain in which Gandalf had met his end. It was strange that she was able to dwell so much on her thoughts as normally horse riding took too much concentration on her part but Súletal seemed to be doing most of the work and so her mind wandered. She tried not to think of what he would say if he were here now, riding away from her companions and the bearer she had sworn to protect. It would have been a rebuke of some sort, a wordless grunt or an exasperated sigh of the sort that had been common when they spoke. To her sorrow she found she would have gladly accepted an enraged Gandalf, a disappointed Gandalf or even a quiet Gandalf, just to know he was still here.

It was not the only reason her heart ached.

Though every clop of hoofs upon the grass brought her further and further from the Fellowship, still she felt a tug, as if an invisible rope still connected her to the group, longing to drag her back. The Aeanorean tried to force them from her mind but the memories of their disappointed looks did not fade, nor did the lingering shadow of Boromir's anger. She even felt a tremor in her arms, as if he were still gripping them, fingers digging into her flesh, pinning her in place like a trap.

Then she remembered Aragorn's warm smile, the look of understanding and she remembered the embrace she had given Legolas, remembered how warm he had been, how gentle. He had not hugged back, this much was true, but nor had he pushed her away. Now she found a new feeling within her heart, no longer the cold ache of loss but a warmth she could not explain and which she tried to push from her mind. Legolas was heading into the most evil place in Middle Earth. Even if he did survive, there was little chance she would see him again.

That thought refused to take root, chased from her mind by the memory of that embrace.

They rode without break through the rest of the day, the sun rising to its zenith without ever injecting the oppressive warmth she was used to in Minas Luin before beginning its descent once again. The flat meadows gave way to undulating hills and valleys coated in a thick grass and dotted with so boulders it were as if a mountain had been smashed into countless pieces. It was only then, when she glanced sidelong at Haldir that the enormity of what she was doing hit her. She was riding with elven warriors! Admittedly it was not the army she had been expecting but after the grim reality of Rivendell, even this troop was enough to raise her spirits.

"Haldir," Another thought had occurred to her, "Why so large an escort? Lothlorien and Rohan must be on the same side no?"

The silver-haired Elf looked at her as if she had just sprouted a second head, "Those days are long gone."

"Why though?" Nemireth scowled, "You fight the same enemy as you did then. Have your allies grown so alien you would all rather face the darkness of Mordor alone?"

"It is not my place to pass comment on the deeds of years past," It was quite clear that Haldir did not wish to talk further on the topic, "Nor it is yours. Rohan has her enemies to face, as do we."

"What enemies could threaten the Golden Wood?" Such an idea seemed incredulous.

"You have been through Moria. You have seen the number of the enemy right on our doorstep."

She had indeed seen them. She had seen more orcs or goblins or whatever those vile creatures were pour into the great halls of Khazad-dûm than she had seen in the entirety of Lothlorien, but it was not her place to say so. Instead she found herself nodding, "You will beat them."

Haldir glanced at her, a look of curiosity reaching those fair, elven features, "You seem sure."

"Of course I'm sure. You are the elves of Lothlorien and the Galadhrim are worth a thousand orcs apiece." 

For the first time, she saw maybe the hint of a smile, "It gladdens me that you think so."

"I know so." There was nothing more to say and so they lapsed into silence as the afternoon ebbed on and they galloped on. At last, Haldir threw up a hand and the group came to a stop. Fortunately, Súletal was paying greater attention than she and stopped with them, else she would have raced on alone.

"We can go no further, Princess Nemireth," Haldir gestured to a group waiting a little distance off. To her delight, amongst the greys, greens and browns of the distance she could see a few smatterings of blue cloaks. He brought his hand to his chest and bowed, "Go in peace, and may good fortune be your ally in the days to come."

She returned the gesture, "And you, Haldir of Lórien. May your aim be true and your blade keen."

With that, Súletal carried her forward with the eyes of both parties on her. She had hoped to see Xiphos or one of her other captains amongst the greeting party but the mere sight of those crested helmets, blue cloaks and silver eagles upon oval shields swept all bad feeling from her mind. Even the sound of the Ellayan language seemed richer, as if she were savouring every syllable, the speaker bowing as deeply as he could upon his mount.

 _"Your Majesty,"_ He said, _"It is our honour to escort you to Edoras."_ He glanced back at the others with them who had remained standing. Glad in green cloaks with chain mail armour and a mixture of axes, swords and spears as weapons, they looked as wild as any men she had ever seen. They were also staring with distinctly unfriendly eyes.

"Greetings," She approached after gesturing that her own men should stand, "I am Nemireth, Princess of-"

She was cut off by a curt hand motion, the giant of a man bringing a finger to his lips and indicating she should follow him.

Biting down on the annoyance that arose from so blatant a slight, Nemireth merely nodded. These were their lands after all, and if he wished them to remain silent then they would do so. Clearly her own escort thought the same for though his nostrils flared like an enraged bull, he did as she, the group following into a column of long and uneasy silence.

It was more hours of riding before, at last, they rounded a particularly large outcrop and found Edoras standing before them. Her first thought was one of disappointment. Edoras was small city, a collect of wooden huts with thatched roofs surrounded by a wooden palisade and grouped around a large rock-strewn hill upon which sat the only stone building in the entire settlement. This was the capital? All of it? Biting her lip, the Aeanorean tried to keep such negative feelings from seeping into her mind but it only grew worse when they passed through the gates and entered the city proper, their native guides shedding them at the first opportunity. The citizens shuffled from place to place, heads bowed, refusing to make eye contact with her or even with one another. Near silence filled the streets, beyond the clucking of hens and the braying of sheep. It felt like the entire city was in mourning.

"Your Highness! At last!"

The voice had her head snapping back as Xiphos approached. Her captain looked much as he had before, brown hair a little longer over his shoulders perhaps but with same mischievous gleam in his eye and cheeky smile upon his lips, "I was beginning to think you had forgotten we were he-"

He got no further before she had disappointed and wrapped her arms around his midriff, squeezing so tightly that he gasped out a laugh, pushing her away.

"Your Majesty! I am flattered but not in public, people might talk."

"Oh Xiphos," She felt like she might cry. Had it really only been a few weeks since she could not wait to be away from him? "I have so much to tell you!"

"Well, sounds like you have had a greater adventure than we have," The Captain shook his head, "We have yet to travel beyond these walls since we arrived."

"Truly?" She frowned, biting her lip once again, "There have been no engagements on Rohan's borders?"

"There have been plenty, we've just not been permitted to join."

"Why so?"

"For that answer, you would need to ask the King."

"Then let's go, I must announce myself to his Highness anyway."

Xiphos' smile slipped, "Are you sure you want to do that, Your Majesty?"

"Of course, it's only polite. I assume he lives up there?" She nodded to the hall atop the hill.

"Yes, but-"

"Then come on! Let's observe protocol. There's so much that needs plan for and make ready."

Protocol would have demanded that she bath or at least change out of the clothes she had been riding in for an entire day but judging from the smell and sight of the riders who had brought her here and those who stood watch over the hall, such things were not a great concern to the people of Rohan. Those same guards did not seem inclined to let her even climb the stairs but at her protests eventually relented. There was something she did not like in their eyes, a distinctly unfriendly gaze that matched that of the large, bearded guide who had accompanied her. What was their problem? Were foreign visitors so rare to the capital?

At last, reaching the top of what were many stairs, the Aeanorean pair were met by two more guards and a red-haired, pale-skinned man who regarded them wearily.

"You stand before Meduseld, the Golden Hall. I am Háma, doorkeeper and captain of the guard. Speak your business."

"I am Nemireth, Princess of Aeanor and Captain-Commander of the King's Guard," She bowed her head before him, a gesture that was not returned, "This is Xiphos, Captain of the 2nd Company of the King's Guard and my advisor. I wish to speak with King Théoden and pledge my support for the defence of his realm."

Háma seemed taken aback by this but, allowing himself to recover, indicating to the sword at her side, "I cannot allow you to enter so armed."

The Princess hesitated but at last undid her belt and handed it to the captain. Xiphos rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath in Ellayan but did the same. Only then were the doors opened and they were permitted to enter.

Inside was dark and cold, with no windows that she could see, plainly decorated with two long wooden tables running the length of the hall. At the very end on a wooden throne sat a man who had to be the King. By the Valar but he looked terrible, hutched over in his throne as if barely able to support his own weight, eyes grey and lifeless, skin mottled and beard stringy and unloved. He made her father look positively lively. He barely lifted his head as she approached and fell on one knee, dutifully mimicked by Xiphos behind her.

"Hail Théoden, King of Rohan," Her voice bounced back at her, reminding her rather uncomfortably of a cave, "I am Princess Nemireth, daughter of King Brúndir III, Princess of Aeanor and Captain-Commander of the King's Guard. I come before you in these dark times to fulfil the oath of my forebearer and pledge my sword," She would have drawn her sword had she still had it but robbed of it, she kept her hands down by her sides, "and the swords of my men in defence of your rea- "

"Aeanor?" A voice came from the shadows at the King's right, a thin man with greasy hair and skin so pale he was nearly translucent. His words were nearly a hiss so they were so soft, "What is Aeanor but a name from history? A word whispered in stories of a time long ago, a realm buried in the past?"

Nemireth felt like she had been slapped. She watched as this man slithered up to beside the throne, unable to find the proper response. Was he questioning the existence of her kingdom? A little bit of that anger rose up but she fought to suppress it. Behind her, Xiphos sighed theatrically, "I'm sorry, My Lord…?"

"Grima. Lord Grima."

"My Lord Grima, I don't understand what you're trying to say?" 

"Aeanor's time in these lands was an age ago, was it not?" He asked, looking like a giant compared to the slumped monarch beside him, "Long before this great kingdom came to be. Pray tell, what oath did you make to our gracious King?"

"I…" She fell over her words, thrown by his question. Was the answer not obvious? Did this man, this…'Lord' not know of the great battles of the Second Age, "I…I mean we, stand ready to help all the free peoples of Middle Earth against Sa-"

"Help us? Which foe do you presume we fight so poorly against that we need _your_ aid?"

"My Lord…I did not mean to imply…" She could feel heat rising in her cheeks, "All I meant was that we can assis-"

"Do you believe war to be so inevitable that you have ridden your heavily armed band right into the capital city and demanded involvement? Do you expect payment? Gold? Jewels? Land perhaps"

"No!" The Princess' patience snapped, "It's not like that at all! Saruman is right on your doorstep and we want only to see him defeated!"

"Saruman?" Grima gave a long, mocking laugh, "Saruman the white wizard? Saruman the Wise? Saruman who long has dwelt in the tower of Orthanc and dispensed advice of great value to the Kings of Rohan? That Saruman?"

"He has turned against you, My Lord. He has joined with Sauron and seeks the destruction of Middle Earth." How could he not have heard this news? Saruman was a stone's throw away!

"You have proof, I presume?" 

"I heard word of it in Rivendell, from Gandalf himself." 

"Idle words spoken in far flung foreign halls do not constitute proof in these lands. Do you have proof with you?" 

"Of course, I don't!" She snarled, now rising to her feet, fists clenched, "I'm not so fortunate to have him waiting outside to testify his own treachery to you though I doubt even that would convince you."

Grima's mouth tightened but she thought she saw the corners of his mouth twitch upwards, "You dare speak with such disrespect in front of the King?"

"No-"

"To sully the great Golden Hall?"

"I didn't mean-"

"To deliver such an _insult_ before his Majesty?" Grima was shouting now, drawn up to his full height which she saw was considerable, "Were it in my power I would see you in the cells! Now go, leave! Before I change my mind." 

The Princess was rooted to the spot, fists clenched tightly as she fixed him with a glare more venomous than all the snakes of the earth. Guards began moving in from the sides of the hall.

"Your Majesty," Xiphos hissed in her ear, eyes flicking left and right.

Without a word, she spun on her heel and stormed from the hall.


	15. Chapter 14: Rohan

"Fool! Damned fool! He refuses to see the truth in front of his face!" Nemireth stormed down the steps, cloak billowing behind her and Xiphos faithfully in tow, standing a safe distance back from the Princess' anger, tone agreeable but quiet.

"Yes, Your Highness."

"And that Grima!" She stopped, even the thought of his broad, slimy smirk too much to handle, "Who is he? I mean, who is he really? He can't be a lord of Rohan, surely?"

"I don't know, Your Highness. He was introduced as such to me."

"And he has the King's ear despite speaking such utter nonsense? To accuse us of chasing money or land…I should have challenged him there and then! Struck him down and wiped that stupid sneer off his face."

"Perhaps not the best way to warm relations with the Rohirrim." Xiphos could not help but smile but mercifully she did not see the expression behind her back, the pair striding back towards the isolated and rundown barracks that were the home of their men.

"And the King, what is wrong with him? Is he dead? Deaf? Dumb?"

"I'm no doctor, Your Highness, so I can't say."

"I've seen livelier vegetables! That was truly Théoden, wasn't it? Not a sack of potatoes they've dressed up in royal attire? I guess I know where the smell comes from now!" She wrinkled her nose was a particularly foul odour drifted across the wind from the direction of some pigs noisily consuming their supper. "And I thought an unbathed dwarf would be the worst thing I would smell. How does he rule? Is there a lever in his bac-"

"-be careful of your words. That is Théoden King you speak of and Edoras is not as forgiving of such words as it might once have been."

She came to a screeching halt at the strange voice, turning to see a man of the Rohirrim watching her with the same unfriendly gaze that she had very quickly become used to. His arms were folded but she could see he wore finely woven chainmail and had a rather expensive looking sword at his hip. Moreover he was not as ragged and unkempt as the common soldier, his blonde hair neatly tied and brown beard trimmed.

"I'm sorry," the Aeanorean folded her own arms, in no mood for games nor cryptic threats, "Who are you?"

"Your Majesty," Xiphos coughed awkwardly, "Allow me to introduce Éomer; Third Marshall of the Riddemark and nephew to the King. Éomer, this is Her Royal Highness, Princess Nemireth of Aeanor."

"Oh," She found her gaze dropping to her feet and a warmth sweeping into her cheeks, "Well met."

"Evidently," He was not smiling.

"You were…listening long then?"

"Long enough."

Oh Valar, suddenly she was back at Rivendell again, under the cold gaze of Elrond and wishing the world to part so she may slip away from the embarrassment frothing away in her stomach.

It was Xiphos who broke the awkward silence, clapping Éomer upon the shoulder, "We have just been to meet with Wormtongue, you owe my men an ale."

Éomer looked to him with a raised eyebrow, "She was thrown out then as you suggested?"

"Oh yes though I was worried. I feared the Princess would keep her tongue for the first time in her life." The Aeanorean threw back his head and laughed.

"You," Nemireth looked from one to the other, mouth agape, "You _bet_ that I would be thrown out by Lord Gríma?"

"Please," Éomer exhaled as if the word had caused him physical pain, "Do not refer to that snake as a lord. Not a single drop of noble blood flows through that ice cold body of his."

"It wasn't a bet, Your Highness, so much as an…agreement." Xiphos was still grinning, "I've had the misfortune of meeting Wormtongue before and knew your meeting him could only end one way."

"What did she say?" Éomer was watching Xiphos entirely and avoiding the eyes of the Princess.

"He asked for proof of Saruman and her Highness said, 'Well I hardly have him outside now do I?'" The Ellayan's chuckle carried in the wind, "Oh he wanted to say something back, I could see it in his eyes."

"Captain Xiphos," Nemireth had her hands on her hip as she glared at her captain, "You had the _cheek_ , the _nerve_ to bet against your Princess and your commanding officer? I could have you demoted! I could have you brought out before your company and stripped of your rank!"

"You could," Still that grin stayed on that swarthy face, "but may I please drink my ale first?"

Éomer snorted and even Nemireth found her mask slipping as she punched him on the arm, all tension dissipating like smoke high above the city, "How could you bet so low against me?"

"Well, I had to be careful. Lord Éomer has so many more troops here than I do." Xiphos pulled a face, "I was going to have to raid my pension fund to satisfy my bet if I'd lost."

"I'd have happily supplied the ale for free," Éomer's smile slipped as they resumed their journey through the city towards the barracks of the King's Guard, "There's been precious little to celebrate in recent times."

"Are things so bad?" The Princess bit her lip.

"Worse. There are raids daily across the northern and eastern borders; villages razed, crops destroyed, innocents slaughtered. The lords of these lands do what they can to protect them but," He sighed, and she saw how heavily the situation sat on his shoulders, "They have only so many men and the enemy is great."

"The King will not intervene?"

"He will not call the muster and he refuses to ride his own men beyond the walls of this city. We do what we can in his place, but I fear there's little that will stem the tide." His voice became heavy and he looked away to the distant hills, hand resting on the hilt of his weapon.

"We'll help," Nemireth felt the overwhelming urge to comfort him, in any way she could, "Xiphos and I. Our men are few in number, but they are battle-hardened men and worth many times their number. We can ride out with you."

"If only it were so simple." Another deep exhale from the Marshal of the Mark.

"The King has forbidden us to ride beyond the city limits, your Highness," Xiphos helpfully intervened, his expression dark, "Under threat of banishment."

"So, we are just to sit here on our hands and do nothing?" She looked between the two men and found no answer in their eyes. This was what she had left the Fellowship for? To sit in a barn until the end days while her friends marched into danger and darkness? No, no she would not have it. "There must be something we can do!"

"Lord Éomer is trying to persuade the King to lift his ban," They at last reached the barracks, where a score of Aeanoreans stood guard and the rest lounged in tunics and trousers, only swords at their sides. Éomer bidding them farewell and departing, "But until he does, there is nothing we can do but wait. You must be patient, Your Highness."

* * *

And so she was, though with great reluctance. Days passed with the same routine. Awake, eat, sit, eat, drill, eat, relax, sleep. They were kept supplied with bread and tough, chewy meat that could have been made of old boots for all she knew. Each day, Éomer would ride beyond the gates with his men, banners flying and hooves thundering, only to return each night with a little less men and further dampened spirits. Each day she would clamber to the tallest tower in the city and gaze eastwards towards the mountains, biting her lip as she tried to picture where the Fellowship would be. Their journey by boat would take time and after that, she had no idea where they would go. An emptiness filled her when she thought of them and a guilt that she was stood here behind the safety of city walls while they were in the open, exposed and alone. For all the stories that came in of raids, skirmishes and deaths, none reached her of two humans, four hobbits, a dwarf and especially an elf. That had to be good, so she tried to tell herself. Despite his assurances that he was doing all he could, Éomer seemed unable to persuade the King of her soldier's worth.

Well, the daily drilling was a chance to prove him wrong.

There was no sun visible through the grey clouds that seemed to have settled above the city as surely as any of its citizens had, it was close to midday as Nemireth stood atop the wooden platform and overlooked the marshalling square. Behind the palace, it was the one place large and flat enough to hold the entire four hundred men of Xiphos' company. Shivering in the wind that whipped through her, the young commander brought her whistle to her lips and blew a single long shriek.

 _"Araharné!"_ She referred to the King's Guard by their Ellayan name, the language most common in the ranks, " _Omáran!"_ The order to form reinforced by the shriek of the whistle.

Each soldier was armed and armoured uniformly; a crested steel helmet, long blue cloak, shining plate atop mail, a spear in one hand, an oval shield decorated with the silver eagle of Aeanor in the other. At their hips were long, straight swords of the Númenórean type. The soldier stood to rigid attention, shields at their sides, eight ranks deep. They should have been four deep and a hundred across but the marshalling ground was not large enough so they would have to make do.

" _Vocaran ameth!_ " Those in the front two ranks raised their shields to form a wall of blue and silver the entire length of the formation, spears lowered and ready to face the threat. It was done with a precision that they wiped a wind of their own.

Nemireth was by now aware of the crowd gathering out of the corner of her eye, peasants and soldiers alike watching from the hills of the city with interest and whispering amongst themselves. Well then, it was time to give them a performance to talk about.

 _"Morrna!"_ Each soldier took a step, putting their shields to the back of their comrades in front until those at the front lunged forward with a greater power than they alone could have managed, the city echoing to the response of four hundred men yelling together, _"Ensan!"_

 _"Morrna!"_

 _"Ensan!"_

The formation drove forward again. The relentless push of the Aeanorean legion, driving back their enemies until they broke and fled. Now for something different.

 _"Philinn!"_ The call of arrows was followed by three short blows of her whistle. Those ranks in the back raised their shields up to cover themselves and those in front of them, a roof of blue atop the wall that formed the front of the formation.

" _Rocharné!_ " Two short whistles followed by a longer blast. The signal for thundering horsemen seemed appropriate given their hosts but the King's Guard did not hesitate, breaking out and forming four squares, shields and spears in all four directions, waiting to receive the phantom charge.

Nemireth was satisfied, the coos and 'aahs' of their audience were enough to ensure that and she puffed her chest out as she gave a long, sharp whistle and the men formed up into the same eight ranks as they had at the beginning of the exercise.

 _"Maer_ _! E-lemosan belaith harné!_ " The praise rippled down throughout the ranks and saw a few stand a little taller. Most remained staring steadfastly ahead. She blew her whistle a final time, " _Tafenan!_ "

The formation dissolved and began to spar, a seemingly chaotic mixture of pairs, groups, single individuals and even imitations of the formations they had adopted just moments ago. Nemireth knew that there was order amongst the seeming madness, junior officers pacing between their troops and barking corrections, praise or, mostly commonly in her opinion, insults for a job done poorly.

Xiphos had stood nearby, long hair fluttering in the wind, helmet tucked under his arm, "Happy?"

"Happier," She pulled off her own helmet, shaking her head to allow brown locks to spill over her shoulders, "I would be happiest if we were in the field."

"No word on that yet, I'm afraid."

"No word on anything. I'm beginning to think the pigs may hear news quicker than we do." The Princess ran a hand through her hair to return some of the volume lost under the press of the helmet, "The men seem in high spirits at least."

"They are growing restless. It's hard to believe I know, living in the palace as we do." Xiphos chuckled, "With luck, Éomer's efforts will prove successful."

"You've been saying that for days."

"He has been trying, but the King is firmly under Wormtongue's thumb. There is only so far he can go."

In the crowd, Nemireth had spotted a golden glow amongst the blacks, browns and greys of Edoras' residents. At first, she thought it Éomer as the hair seemed very similar, only for her to realise with some small embarrassment that it was a woman in the distance.

"Lady Éowyn," Her Commander helpfully offered, "Éomer's sister."

"She's come to watch us every day." Only now, when she seemed to have been spotted, did the lady of Rohan turn and retreat to the Golden Hall.

"When you live in the same hall as Wormtongue, I imagine watching the crows fight over a piece of straw is breathless entertainment. Speaking of which," The Ellayan nodded to where a man shrouded in black was scurrying towards them from the direction of the hall. He was not one of the King's men, nor was he Éomer's. He had to be Wormtongue's, for he had that shifty look about him that all that man's followers seemed to naturally possess.

"Princess Nemireth," He bowed, though he did not take his eyes from her, "His majesty King Théoden extends his greetings and wishes to meet with you."

Nemireth just looked at him, "Excuse me?"

"The King wishes to meet with you. He regrets how your first meeting passed and wishes to know more about his new allies."

A meeting? With Théoden himself? That was a new development. Glancing to Xiphos for advice, only to receive a rather unhelpful shrug, she looked back to the messenger. While she had no great desire to spend time with either Théoden or Wormtongue, this was an opportunity to have the ear of the king herself. She could not let it slip, "Very well, my Commander and I will be there sho-"

"Beg pardon, my lady, but the invitation is for you alone. One royal to another."

Nemireth inhaled dangerously, "Xiphos is a captain of the King's Guard, a veteran of campaigns across Aeanor. He cannot be swept aside like some peasant."

"There's nothing I can do, my Lady. This is the word of the King himself. Please come at once." With a final bow, he scurried off.

Alone at last, with the ringing of swords and thud of spears in the background, Nemireth bit her lip and looked up into the eyes of the Ellayan who was frowning, "You're not going."

"I have to."

"You're not going by yourself!"

"You heard the messenger; no one else is invited."

"What if it's a trap?" He shook his head, "I've already seen you march off across the world with Winds knows what in front of you. Now you expect me to let you step into a Viper's nest?"

"I have to go! If I can convince the King to let us join the defence, we can do some real good! We can help! You did say the men were getting restless after all."

"That's not worth risking your life, Your Majesty!"

"Well, you can't stop me. I'm the Princess _and_ your commanding officer." She tried to smile but did not receive in one in reply. They walked on silently before Xiphos threw up his hands in exasperation, "How much am I going to have to bet this time?"

"Bet your entire pension fund. I'm going to be on my best behaviour."

He looked to the sky as if in silent prayer, "This is going to be a very expensive meeting."

* * *

For all Nemireth's life, she had followed a very strict protocol when meeting members of high nobility and royalty. She was to be spotless, bathed and scrubbed until her skin pruned and she looked a woman fifty years her senior. She was to dress in the very latest fashions, gowns and dresses of many different colours made from materials from all over the continent. Her hair was to be done up as elaborately as possible, tied and knotted with a great many buttons, ribbons, bows and flowers. For her entire life, she had followed this routine through clenched teeth, bowing when she needed to bow, speaking when she needed to speak, dancing when she needed to dance. It had been painful, tiring and degrading but it had been a routine. It was jarring then, when the preparations for her second encounter with Théoden, King of Rohan consisted of throwing some water over her face from a trough, dampening her hair down as best she could and giving her breastplate a hasty scuff with her sleeve. The washing she regretted almost immediately as a chill swept through the city, clinging to her long, damp hair like a child tugging with all their might. Her teeth chattered as she climbed the steps alongside Xiphos, the man wearing a rather uncharacteristic scowl.

"Will you stop brooding?" She hissed at him, "You're worse than father."

"It's my job to see you safe, Princess," He replied, "You throwing yourself headfirst at every danger you see is not going to do wonders for my career."

"Is that why the entire company is awake?" She asked somewhat sarcastically, mind drifting back to the barracks packed with Aeanoreans dressed is if they were about to storm the slopes of Barad-Dur itself, "Ready to come save your career?"

Xiphos did not reply for they were now at Hama and his guards. The Doorkeeper offered her a bow this time at least which she returned before handing him her sword but keeping her whistle about her neck.

"I'll await your return, Your Majesty." Her Commander bowed his head as the doors were first opened to grant her entry and then closed behind her. As the gloominess of the room enveloped her, it was hard not to feel like a rat clambering into a trap in search of the last crumb of cheese. Her first instinct was to turn on her heel and retreat, but the Princess beat down that thought. She had a chance to speak with the King. If she could get him to see her side of things, allow her people to join the defence of his realm, then they could forge the alliance so desperately needed.

The great hall was empty, save for a single servant who quickly showed her through a dizzying series of turns and twists until only the Valar knew where she was, standing in a dark stone room which played host to a desk stacked with paper, great shelves of the same and a bed. The smell was sickly sweet and her stomach heaved at the stale air but there, standing in the middle with his hands behind his back before her, was Gríma himself.

"My Lady Nemireth," he approached and, with deceptive speed, grabbed her wrist. He had pressed his lips to the back of her hand before she could whip it away in disgust. Now, standing so close to him, she could see how bloodshot his eyes were, how worn and waxen his skin was, how ragged and thin his hair was. Even his breath was fowl, speaking through yellowed teeth, "It is a pleasure to see you again."

"Lord Gríma," The name Wormtongue had been on the tip of her tongue but she had swallowed it just in time. Where was she? Why here? The answer clung uncomfortably to her mind as the servant closed the door behind her with a muted thud. She had to press on, She had to be diplomatic, "Are we awaiting the King?"

"Alas, The King has taken ill and will not be joining us. He has allowed me to act in his stead." Wormtongue began pacing and Nemireth bit back her retort; _when does he ever not?_

"Well, the King wished to meet with me urgently about something?"

"He did, but first, how are your quarters? It is hardly seemly for a Princess and a Lady to be sleeping amongst common soldiers as you have been enduring. Please, move up to the Golden Hall, the King would enjoy it greatly if you were to take one of the spare rooms."

"I…thank the King for his generous offer, but I am happy with my men."

A flash in those dark eyes. Displeasure? Anger? She could not tell. All she knew was that it was not the answer he had wanted no matter what his smile suggested.

"A pity. We are so rarely visited by royalty in these dark times and it reflects poorly on our nation and our King when we cannot offer fitting hospitality."

"I…" That did make sense. How would it have looked had her father made any of the visiting nobility sleep amongst their retinues? It would be scandalous, "…I will think on it, Wo-Lord Gríma. In the meantime, I wished to speak to the King about my men. Every day we hear the tales from refugees. Every day they tell us homes ablaze, crops spoiled and loved ones dead. We can help stop that. We came here _only_ to stop that. We have no wish to take your coin or your land or whatever else you thought we desired. We wish only to see peace returned to this land."

"Peace," Wormtongue repeated the word, as if tasting it, "All men desire peace, My Lady. It is how we go about gaining it that decides our fates."

"We can _help_ you gain it," She approached in her eagerness. His eyes widened but he did not back away, gaze dropping briefly before returning to keen eyes, "Please let my men join the defence of the realm. Convince the King to let us fight!"

"The King? His Majesty would like nothing more than to see the banner of Aeanor fly alongside his own. He has been…counselled by those wiser in the ways of war than I. Your men do not know the land. They are foreigners in this land as are any supposed raiders. They do not speak the language. They do not know the land. You would have them ride out in this manner?"

"Well, not _alone_ of course," Nemireth was taking aback, defences falling by the wayside. He was…agreeing with her? Had she misjudged him? Éomer and Xiphos had spoken of him with such distrust yet here he was, trying to reason with her. Excuses were better than the straight no of before. Excuses she would work with, "But with the forces of one such as Lord Éomer we could-"

"Lord Éomer," Wormtongue snarled and shook his head, a departure from the guarded expression of before, "It is Lord Éomer who has counselled against your men joining the fight. It was he who recommended they remain in the capital. More a hindrance than an aid, he said."

Nemireth was struck dumb and a cold silence engulfed the pair.

Wormtongue came closer. The smells of mud and grease filling her nostrils, "Éomer is not a friend of Aeanor, Lady Nemireth. He is closed-minded, stubborn, arrogant. He wants the glory for the Kingdom of Rohan and for himself. I have tried to persuade the King otherwise but Éomer is his nephew and he holds great sway over him. Your men will rot in that barn until the end of days before they see the field of battle here."

Closer he drew. She could see the pockmarks in his cheeks, the redness of his eyes, the cracks in his lips and the worn grooves in his teeth. And there she stood, anchored to the spot, racked with indecision. Every word of Wormtongue's was a lie, it had to be. He would not believe Saruman was an enemy of Rohan and Xiphos held him in such content that he could not be trusted.

But what if he was right?

"I can be your ally in court, My Lady," She could feel his breath now upon her still damp hair as he stepped behind her, pacing her, "I can fight for your men, a chance to see them ride out in all the glory your Kingdom possesses but to do that, you must trust me." He took a breath, "You arrived some time after your people, from the forests of the elves. What were you doing there?"

"I was…" She closed her eyes, thoughts suddenly growing cloudy. Why had it suddenly become so hard to think? "Seeing to business…for the war."

"Alone?"

"No…yes." The first word had sprung from her mouth almost unbidden. She could hear him inhaling through his nose.

"Who else was with you?"

"No…no one of importance." It was as if her mind was filling with sand, heavy and yet light. She felt like she might faint, "Lord Gríma, may I be excused?"

"Not if you keep lying to me, _Princess,_ " He hissed, "Who was with you in Lothlorien?"

The memories of the Fellowship floated into her mind and she had a great urge to speak their names. Frodo. Sam. Merry. Pippin. Aragorn. Boromir. Gimli. She bit down on her lip with such force that she tasted blood.

Legolas. She thought of that hug again. His words upon their parting. _You have more courage than you know._ His hand in hers, warm and soft, gentle and yet firm.

"I was there with a friend."

"A friend?"

"A good friend."

"Was that all?"

That had been all. He had been distant. She had been arrogant and aggressive. But that embrace. How he had pulled away when he realised they were holding hands. So close.

"That was all." How she wished now it had not been so.

"Lord Gríma!"

A strange voice entered the room and like that, the fog engulfing the Princess' mind vanished. Seeing how close Wormtongue was, all but rubbing against her, she stepped back and brought her palm to his cheek with a noise that bounced off the thick stone walls of the room, sending the man back.

"Lady Éowyn," There was a quiver in Wormtongue's voice, a cold rage he kept suppressed, eyes lowered as she stood before him, hand to his cheek.

"Lord Gríma, thank goodness I found you. My uncle has awoken and demands your presence immediately." Her eyes darted between Wormtongue and Nemireth like a nervous tick.

Wormtongue said nothing but swept from the room in a single motion.

"Quickly," Éowyn grabbed the confused Aeanorean by her sleeve and tugged with a greater force than expected, "Follow me."

* * *

 **AN:** First off, a massive thank you to everyone who's read the story thus far and kept up even after the long hiatus, you guys are awesome!

If anyone is interested, the language being spoken by Nemireth to her troops is a mixture of Sindarin elven and ellayan, reflecting how the two cultures have merged in Aeanor. The best example is the name of the unit; _Araharné (Ara-_ The Sindarin prefix for "Royal" or "Noble" and _Harné,_ the ellayan word for "soldiers").

The phrase " _Maer! E-lemosan belaith harné"_ she used to praise them uses ellayan grammar and sindarin words. It translates to; "Excellent! You are mighty warriors!"

Let me know if you'd like to know more about Aeanor in notes like this, I can't always work it in without it being clunky. If not, that's totally cool too!

Thanks again!


	16. Chapter 15: The Princess and the Warrior

Although the fog of Wormtongue's rooms had been lifted Nemireth was little more than a passenger, at the mercy of the woman who was now dragging her through corridor after corridor. The Aeanorean was used to sprawling complexes, the palace of Minas Luin itself being a vast labyrinth for those unfamiliar with its halls, but these seemed to have no rhythm or reason. Some were little more than rooms filled with doors while others looked to be bedrooms or store rooms. All the while, Éowyn remained quiet, head snapping this way and that as she checked that they were alone. Nemireth did not question where she was being brought; she knew it was away from Wormtongue and that could only be a good thing.

At long last they came to a screeching stop. Éowyn had pushed her into another smallish room. The wooden beams of the roof were a little too close to her head for comfort and not a sound reached them once the thick wooden door was closed and the metal latch sealed. It was little more than a storeroom, tables stacked high with bags and boxes of Valar only knew what. It was only when they were plunged into that dim silence that Nemireth realised how deeply she was breathing, the sound raspy and heavy from lips and nostrils alike. Her companion was likewise panting but had her ear pressed against the door as if preparing for the inevitable pursuit while her hand hovered by an unseen item at her belt. The Princess had no idea how long they waited for there were no windows, but finally, Éowyn relaxed.

"We were not followed." She exhaled deeply, though her whispered words seemed uttered more to herself than to Nemireth. Sharp grey eyes swept over her companion then, examining her critically. Suddenly she did not look tired or weighed down but fierce and full of energy, "He did hurt you?"

"I," Nemireth had to lick her lips and her brow furrowed as Éowyn paced to the opposite wall where there was another door, one that had somehow managed to escape her own notice, "No. Did you think he would?"

"I cannot say," She shook her head, "Wormtongue was unpredictable before but he has become more so since your people arrived. He fears you and he fears your men. Though why I can only guess."

"When, when I was speaking with him, he said that it was Éomer's idea to keep us confined to Edoras," She was now frowning openly while she watched the Lady of Rohan pace back and forth, "Is that true?"

"I don't know," That fire was leaking away and Éowyn grew increasingly weary, shoulders hunching over and hand falling from her belt. Nemireth saw what she had been holding so tightly; a long and thin dagger glinting in the dull light, "But you cannot take what Wormtongue says as truth. He takes good intentions and twists them into vile and evil shapes so they are unrecognisable to the wider world. He has made all Rohan bitter and afraid. Now you must go, before he sends men to find you."

Nemireth did not move, watching her rescuer carefully, trying to ignore the crawling sensation in her skin, "Are you in danger, My Lady?"

"Don't worry about me, I will be fine. You must go back to your men, please." That final pleading note in her voice was enough to move the Princess to action. She was loath to do it yet she did so anyway. The honourable part of her instinct was berating her for moving but her head was heavy, as if a great boulder were tied about her forehead and she feared if she did not move then, she may not move at all.

On the other side of the door she was greeted by that whipping Rohirrim wind slapping her in the face as powerfully as any hand could have done and nearly knocking her from her feet. The way down was a servant's stairway. The steps were larger and more rugged than those of the main entrance and though she should have taken them slowly she descended at near a sprint. She wanted to be as far away from the Golden Hall as possible.

She arrived back at the barn out of breath, having sprinted across the entirety of the city and threw open the door to be confronted by an entire company of fully armed Aeanorean soldiers. Taking a seat before she collapsed, they gathered around her. Their muttering and whispers were such that the noise became a meaningless hum in her ear. Before long Xiphos arrived. He all but threw men out of the way as he fought to the front and knelt before his Commander.

"Your Highness?" He reached for her but stopped short before pulling back, "What happened?"

She began to explain but with each passing sentence Xiphos' face grew darker and redder until he was the colour of beetroot. Those behind who could hear were passing word and before long her story was bouncing around the barn as if she had yelled it into a cave. Before she could even get to Éowyn's role in rescuing her, the Captain had stood, jaw taunt and fists clenched.

 _"King's Guard!"_ He called in ellayan, _"Form up for march!"_

Junior officers echoed the command with the same sound and fury, the troops arranged themselves into a long column, taking up nearly the entirety of the barn with shields and spears in hand.

"What?" Nemireth clambered to her feet, "Xiphos, what are you doing?"

"That snake thinks he can treat our commander, the heir to _our_ throne in this way?!" The change that had come over the captain was stark; no longer was he his usual smiling and cheerful self but shaking in rage, teeth all but gritted, "He thinks he can get away with it? I don't think so." He switched back to his native tongue, _"Prepare to march! Double quick!"_

"Xiphos, no! You can't!" She threw herself towards him and he stepped back in shock as his command barred the exit to the barn, "If you march out there, they'll try to stop you! It'll be war!"

"Princess," He tried to coat his snarl in a courtly tone but failed while attempting to push her aside, "This is an insult! Not just to you, but your father, your army and your kingdom! He cannot speak to you nor treat you as he has! Wormtongue has to face justice!"

"And you think cutting your way through the king's guards, maybe the king himself will bring that about? We are supposed to be _allies_! What about Éomer?" She bit her lip, knowing that Éomer could have been working against them too, Wormtongue's words digging into her mind in spite of her best efforts to keep them out. Her captain did not notice this however, instead hesitating at the mention of Éomer. "Please! Discuss it with him! Maybe there's another way than fighting!"

"Is that an order, Captain?"

"Yes! Stand down!"

Xiphos exhaled as a dragon snorted fire and pinched his brow, _"King's Guard! Stand down! I want double guards on every post!"_

The soldiers began to dissipate, breaking up into their smaller units with muttering and grumblings. Suddenly exhausted, Nemireth plopped back onto a sack that had been doubling as a bed and was soon in a deep and troubled sleep.

* * *

The next morning, the mood amongst the Kings Guard was nothing less than poisonous as they formed up for the drills. The crowd had gathered as before but now the men were looking up at them with firm grips on their spears and shields at the ready, as if expecting an ambush at any second. It was not long before the golden maiden appeared through the crowd as usual, along with several of Théoden's guards. That served only to increase the tension, which at this point was thick enough that Nemireth was all but drowning in it.

She did not give the commands today; instead Xiphos took command of his company and delivered the commands as if he were standing on the field of battle. His voice was loud and strong while the troops reacted in the same manner, as if they were surrounded, every move sharper and cleaner than normal. The formations were quickly passed through and the unit broke up to begin their sparring though with a lot more men standing idle, eyes on the cliff. Guards amongst the ranks, ready to push to the edge of the training ground.

The crowd seemed to sense the new hostility and quickly dissipated. All except Éowyn. She approached cautiously, like a pup testing a stranger and Nemireth, tired and growing ever more frustrated at how everything had come to pass, went to meet her halfway.

"My lady," She bowed deeply to her.

"Éowyn, please." The bow was returned, but Éowyn was looking past Nemireth as she straightened up again, "Are you expecting trouble?"

"I'm not, but, " The Aeanorean glared over her shoulder at her commander, "Wormtongue's behaviour was highly improper."

"I agree, excuse me," Éowyn turned her full attention to Xiphos and bowed to him. This seemed to surprise him and he returned the gesture, "Captain Xiphos, my brother speaks highly of you and your men. Your dedication to your Princess and commander has won his admiration in particular. We are a kind people and these troubled times take a heavy toll on us all. Your presence in the capital calms many, your drills a break from the daily troubles that now besiege. I humbly ask for the forgiveness of you and your people, that we may not be judged so harshly by the actions of one and become enemies where there could be friendship."

"I…" Xiphos was taken aback, words robbing him for the first time he considered. He let out a deep exhale and nodded, "The war takes a toll of us all, My Lady."

"Thank you, Captain," Éowyn smiled broadly, her face lighting up when she did so, a radiance that seemed so distant from her now returning for all to see. Even Xiphos seemed dazzled by her charm, "I would hate to keep you from your training. You have my word that no harm will come to Princess Nemireth while I speak with her."

As polite a dismissal as Nemireth had ever heard, but it worked. A nudge of Xiphos' head and the men who had been gathered and spoiling for a fight now merged back to the mass. There would be eyes on her of course but at last the tension thinned just a little.

"Wormtongue didn't harm you, did he?" Now alone, Nemireth felt free to ask the one question that had held much of her concern during the night.

"He dare not. His position is not so great yet." The two watched the sparring soldiers as they worked up a sweat, her gaze downcast suddenly, "Though many a servant felt the sting of his wrath in my place."

"How can he get away with it?" Nemireth asked, the disgust clearer in her question than she intended, "Can no one move against him?"

"Many have tried; My brother, Hama the doorkeeper, Erkenbrand. Each time, Wormtongue finds a way to maintain his place by the king. The guards despise him but their hands are tied. Once, it would not have been so, my uncle would never have stood to have a man like him within a hundred leagues of Edoras, much less giving council."

"What happened?"

"Age perhaps, the long years of rule and war taking their toll on him at last," Éowyn shrugged her shoulders and exhaled as the two began to pace, "The rumours coming in from every corner of the land; dark stories, ill tidings from every messenger…they seem to be never ending."

"Sounds like hope's in short supply in Rohan," Nemireth found herself biting down on her lip once more, wincing as she caught where she had managed to cut it the previous night, when Wormtongue had questioned her so insistently.

"There are days when I think the same," Another sigh, "But I believe in my brother, I believe in my king and I believe in our people. We've endured many trials during our history. This will be on different."

She spoke so earnestly, so keenly that Nemireth could not help but believe and a smile tugged at her lips for the first time in a long while. Not wishing to fall back into such dark topics, she changed topic; "I noticed you watch us practise every day. Are we such a novelty?"

"Visitors to Edoras have been rare for some time so, honestly, yes," Éowyn laughed a sweet laugh and Nemireth's smile widened further, "The commands you give, the armour you wear, even your language is foreign to us. You are a princess, yet you dress as a common soldier, this is normal amongst your people?"

"You can blame the ellayan part of our blood for that. They believe that so long as one can shot an arrow, swing a sword or thrust a spear, they can fight."

"Ellayans?"

"Tribal peoples from the region of Ellayador. Or I guess the Emerald Plains. They're famous for their riders. They rode rings around my ancestors for centuries. Caused them no end of headaches."

"So they're ellayans?" She nodded towards the drilling troops.

"Some are. Some are of mixed blood, like me. Ellayador and Aeanor; one kingdom since the days of King Amathor. There's a story in that but perhaps it can wait for a better time."

"That is, remarkable," And it did seem like the lady of Rohan was impressed, which caused Nemireth's chest to puff out just a little more. Rarely did she get to speak of her people to outsiders, "I must say, I am a little envious. I would never be allowed to fight in battle, much as I would like to."

"It's frowned against in Rohan?"

"Once it was not so and Shieldmaidens were common. Now, they are but a faded memory of a forgotten past." Éowyn's smile dropped and she looked away forlornly, searching the horizon.

Nemireth knew she should comfort her but at first struggled to think of anything other than meaningless platitudes until a thought came to her mind and she blurted it out without delay, "Would you like to spar?"

"Hmm?" Éowyn seemed not to have heard her but as she looked back into those intelligent, grey eyes, she found she could not take back what she had said.

"Would you like to practise with me? We have a few spare training weapons and it need not be too intense."

"Oh no! I couldn't possibly! It wouldn't be proper," Though she said all the right things, Nemireth could see the longing in her eyes. Feeling a little improper herself, longing to bring some cheer back into her world and that of the Lady of Rohan, the Princess sprang towards the training ground.

"Well," She was beaming now, "Does the Lady of Rohan refuse my challenge? Does she value her country's honour so poorly?"

"Princess Nemireth!" Éowyn laughed aloud and quickly jumped down in pursuit of the Aeanorean, "I could never let a challenge on my country's honour go unchallenged! You shall your duel!"

"Spar!"

"Oh of course, your spar."

So a circle was quickly organised amongst the practising King's Guard, though not without a great deal of muttering and dark grumblings. Soon, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan, stood with a wooden sword in her hand and facing down Nemireth, Princess of Aeanor who hurriedly removed her metal breastplate.

"To make things fair," Was her answer to a raised eyebrow from her competitor. Éowyn giggled and bowed, a proper swordman's salute which she received in turn from the princess. Then Éowyn sprang forward.

The duel was fierce with no clear leader. Nemireth may have been a trained soldier but she was used to fighting with a shield in one hand and its absence left her off-balance. Éowyn seemed to have no such problem and while her strokes were over-aggressive and her footwork sloppy, she was quick and effective. Nemireth had no idea how long they parried and danced around each before, at last, Xiphos blew his whistle sharply.

"That concludes our training for this morning, my ladies," He looked to be fighting to keep from laughing, "And I imagine duelling for eternity will put both of you rather behind schedule. And I need to attend to matters across the city, so need someone to watch the unit." That last part was delivered with a meaningful glance in his commander's direction.

"Ah yes, of course." Nemireth straightened up, dirty, sweat and sore from where she had been struck by the dull blade but feeling a thrill run through her that had almost become a stranger, the feeling of enjoyment. She gave another bow of her head to her opponent, in no better condition despite the dress she wore, "I congratulate you, Lady Éowyn, a magnificent performance. Perhaps next time, the outcome will be in your favour."

"I think you must be mistaken, Lady Nemireth," Éowyn was breathless but grinning all the same, "But I believe I delivered the most blows."

"I believe you are mistaken. I hit you far more times than you hit me." The Princess giggled.

"That cannot be the case, for I hit you so many more times I feared my blade would break."

"Well I hit you so many times that your dress has left a pattern in the blade."

"Ah in the same manner that I-"

Xiphos cleared his throat but not keep the chuckle in this time, "Once again, apologies my Ladies."

"Indeed," Éowyn straightened up and handed her weapon back to a nearby guard, rolling her shoulders as she did so, "I believe I now need a bath."

"I believe you do too." Nemireth grinned mischievously as Éowyn bit back on her retort, eyes flicking to Xiphos as a disobedient child does to her tutor before scurrying off towards the Golden Hall.

Watching her depart, Nemireth's eyes fell upon a less welcome figure and her mood plummeted from its heady heights. Without thinking, she darted from Xiphos' side and to the rocky overwatch of the city where Éomer stood watching.

"My Lady," He greeted her with folded arms, "Was that my sister who passed covered in mud and bruises? I shall assume it was your doing."

"We were sparring," Nemireth was not in the mood for games, and least of all to explain herself. Wormtongue's words of the previous night still gnawed at her. "Your sister is an excellent swordswoman."

"In spite of my best efforts," He sighed, "Normally I would not have it, but the smile on her face is hard to argue aga-"

"-Lord Éomer, I must ask you question?" She could hold it in no longer. He straightened up, mouth setting in a hard line and eyes narrowing but he nodded, "Is it true that you advised against us riding out of Edoras?"

"Wormtongue," He bared his teeth in an ugly grimace, "I told you not to trust a word he said."

"So you can answer the question then?"

A long silence.

"So, it is true." Her stomach sank.

"It is not true. He has twisted my words."

"Oh yes?" Now she was the one who folded her arms, "What words are these? Clearly they involved keeping my men trapped in Edoras."

"Not trapped. Merely held back until they were ready."

"And you think they are not ready?"

"That is not what I intended to sa-"

A great shout went up from below.

Nemireth had her attention turned from the Marshal to see that a mass brawl had broken out at the edge of the training square; blue and green cloaks swirling in the melee as men shouted and gathered around.

"Oh no…" Éomer was already running and she joined him, sprinting as fast as she could until she was amongst them. Men on both sides were shouting furiously, the Aeanoreans throwing insults in their own tongue and the Rohirrim doing the same, fists were flying in every direction as she forced herself between the two groups with Éomer's help and drove them back from each other.

 _"What is the meaning of this?!"_ She was looking at an ellayan, darker-skinned with short dark hair and a thin, clean-shaven face, _"Explain yourself!"_

" _They insulted us! Called us cowards and you a foreign wench!"_ He was pointing wildly into the group of green-cloaked Rohirrim men who were bellowing with Éomer in a language she did not understand. Her embarrassment at what they had said was swiftly overrun by her anger and she found that she herself was shouting.

 _"No matter what they said, you are a soldier of the King's Guard! We are here to help these people, not to fight them!"_

 _"So you keep saying, your Majesty,"_ He jeered, _"So far, they have trapped us in their filthy, foul-smelling capital, fed us stale bread and rancid meat, abused our commander and insulted our unit! I will not take such words from an eastern savage!"_ There were murmurings in the ranks and more than a few nodding in agreement. _"I still don't know why we're even here!"_

 _"We are here to defend Rohan from invasion! We are here to help these people-"_

 _"But WHY are we here? In these lands?"_ The soldier was now glaring directly at her and under his gaze, she felt her anger retreat to be replaced by something else. Fear. _"Why have we sailed around the world to defend these people? What have they ever done to deserve such favour? I joined the army to defend my family and my home, not travel to Winds know where to serve the whims of some spoilt brat's fantasy!"_

More murmurings, more nodding heads. Nemireth opened her mouth to respond but found no words would come. They were all looking at her now, cutting her open with those unblinking eyes, stripping bare every slight, every misgiving, every insult they had suffered since the day she had decided they would come to Middle Earth. The resent she saw in their faces burned at her very core and she found herself fighting to keep tears from coming.

A whistle blew sharply.

 _"That. Is. ENOUGH!"_

Xiphos charged through the ranks like a bull though he needn't have bothered as men threw themselves out of his way as if he were enraged. His face was red and his breath short but his anger was no less intense.

 _"Lochía! Take this man! Take his cloak! He is to stand out of rank!"_ The man who had shouted at his princess, at his command was hurriedly seized and dragged from the arena. The rest disbanded, all but fleeing to escape from the commander's wrath. Across the way, Éomer had broken up his own rabble and they were departing with backwards glances and evil expressions that were returned by the King's Guard.

Nemireth said nothing. She did not look at Éomer. She did not look at Xiphos. She stormed from the training square, from the barn, from her men, from her situation. She kept going until the walls of Edoras barred her way. The tears she had barely kept back now fell freely as her mind was fixed on the faces of her troops, those looks of bitterness, of disappointment. Only one man had spoken, but only one man had needed to. Even how his words tore through her heart, each one more painful than the last. _A spoiled brat's fantasy_. Was that all this was? Some dream she had chased without thought of her men, of her kingdom? Aeanor was beset from all directions by enemies yet here she was, half a world away with the army's best men, playing the soldier, playing the diplomat. The selfishness hit her with such force that she gasped, falling back against the wall of a nearby house and sliding to the ground.

How long she sat like that, she had no idea. The sun was just beginning its descent when she heard a voice, "So this is where you ended up."

"Go away."

Xiphos sighed and sat beside her with a grunt of effort, armour clinking and chinking against itself, "I spoke with Éomer. It was the Rohirrim to started the fight; men in the service of Wormtongue. He's going to take steps to make sure it's only his men patrolling near our camp."

Nothing. The Princess would not look at him.

Still, the Aeanorean soldiered on, "He's also provided a house for me to keep our wayward soldier in. I've sentenced him to double duties rather than prison. It would be rather difficult to jail him in a barn after all." A sideways glance but still Nemireth had eyes only for her feet. Time dragged on.

"They hate me." She finally said.

"Soldiers hate everybody. They hate you, they hate me, they hate the king, they hate Karos. They hate anyone who tries to make them do anything."

"I saw it in their faces, Xiphos. They truly hate me."

"They're frustrated. They're hearing the same stories we are and they can do nothing about it."

"When was the last time the King's Guard lost discipline like that? Do you recall it ever happening?"

"I don't recall the King's Guard ever being brought across the sea either yet here we are." He nudged her gently, "This is a year of firsts."

"Will it happen again?"

"It might. I'll put on double drills to tire them out and keep the grumbling down but there's only so much we can do in such confined space."

"I know." She wrapped her arms around her legs, chin resting on her knees as she looked up at the sky, "It would have been better to have never come here."

"We're certainly not contributing much to the country's defence at the moment." Xiphos agreed, "We could leave, at your discretion of course. I could speak with Éomer and I'm sure he'd understand it's for the best. We could go east, to Gondor. There may not be so serious a problem there with politics."

"Maybe not." Another long pause, "I'll think about it." For the first time she looked up at him, "Do I come back to the barn?"

"Of course," The captain stood and helped his commander up, "They are _your_ men. You are _their_ leader. Do not forget that. Besides, they're all petrified now of what you'll do now. They'll be hoping to avoid that famous Nemireth temper," He grinned.

She smiled weakly in response but could not feel it warm her heart. What had she said to Éowyn that same day? That hope was in short supply in Rohan?

It felt like it had faded just a little more.


	17. Chapter 16: Hope Rekindled

For Nemireth, sleep was no easier to find in the stable of Edoras than it had been in the depths of Khazad-dûm. The sack she used as bedding was rough against her skin; the hay poked at her from every angle and every breath had the stench of men who had been living in proximity for far too long yet that was not what kept her awake. They were the men who were coughing, the sneezing, the snorting and grumbling around her, for whom slumber capped a day of training, marshalling and most certainly no fighting. They were the men she was supposed to be leading, the men she had brought across the world, who at her command would happily stand to in the morning, march through the gates of the city and never look back.

Why were they staying? What had the Rohirrim done to earn such loyalty from her? They had been neglected, belittled, treated as unwelcome houseguests rather than firm allies. There were suspicions everywhere; the King, Wormtongue, even Éomer did not trust that they could help. If he, a warrior who knew how bad things were then they may as well have been stationed back in Minas Luin.

So she tossed and she turned. Every time she came back to the same question; every time she closed her eyes the words seared themselves across her mind; _Why are we still here?_

No matter how many times she tried to answer positively, her words sounded hollow, nothing but excuses. Each time she closed her eyes she saw the looks of resentment in her men's faces, the same looks that had haunted her on the journey across the sea to the Grey Havens. Bending to the whims of a child. That was what they thought. A child with her head full of fairy tales and myths. How could she deny them what they wanted? A return to their home? A chance to fight for their own families, for their own lands? It filled her with disgust to even think it; to know that Sauron was real, that the threat of darkness to these lands were real and now she was honestly considering running away. That was what she told herself at least, but another voice, a sinister and uncomfortable whisper filled her head in the few moments that peace fell on churning thoughts.

 _You can't stand the idea that you were wrong._

What was the alternative? Go back to her father with her tail between her legs? Have these months go down in the history of Aeanor as a failed expedition led by a foolish commander entertained by loyal captains and a weak king? A waste of men, money and time? No better than King Echer the Third whose pride cost Aeanor the entire western frontier? No better than King Ferion, who brought the kingdom to its knees for reason other than stubbornness? No better even than King Erioron, whose arrogance near brought about the extinction of Aeanor itself?

The thought she could be following in their footsteps made her feel physically sick.

Had they thought they were making the right decisions at the time? Had wise council been offered to them only to have it cut down and ignored? Had they known in their final moments that they would go down in lore as the worst of Aenor's Kings? The Kings of the time of Chaos?

There were no answers as exhaustion at last overtook her.

* * *

 _Footsteps thudded softly on warm and smooth tiles. Buttery light poured in through tall and wide windows, illuminating the mosaics and statues of the walls in stark contrast to the shadows in which they sat. This was not the barn of Edoras. There was no smell of pigs here but the scent of the sea. No squealing dogs or whistling wind but the cackle of seagulls, the buzz of a vibrant market. There was no war here. This was Minas Luin. An ancient city. A place steeped in history. A place of peace._

 _Not that the young girl who ran cared much for any of it._

 _She cared not which twists and turns she took. She cared not for the portraits of great deeds and people long since past nor the people who moved aside so her progress may be unimpeded. She had one goal in mind. Get as far away as possible. Keep running. Keep going until there was nowhere left to go. At last she found it, a dark corner in some quiet part of the palace and it was here she huddled, arms folded around her legs as she buried her forehead in her knees, the little woollen soldier still clasped in one tiny hand, flailing wildly as she was wracked with sobs._

 _Even so far away from him, all she could hear was his voice in her head; face twisted and ugly as he roared at her; "Get away, Nemireth! Leave me in peace for one moment, please!"_

 _The generals had been shouting at him for ages; the tall men in armour with angry faces who came to the palace every day to yell at father. He yelled back. Father had never yelled when mummy was around but he was always so cross now, especially after the generals. When they had gone, he sat in his seat, head in his hands. All she wanted to do was hug him, to let him know that she still loved him even if the generals all hated him._

 _But he had shouted at her too._

 _What had she done wrong? Why did he hate her now too? She wanted mummy back. Mummy had made everything better. Mummy had made father happy. But she was gone and no matter how many times the young girl tried, the Valar would not answer her prayers to bring her back._

 _Now she prayed for something else. She wanted to go away. She wanted to go to the lands of her books; green places where people weren't cross or shouting all the time. Where they hugged and cuddled and played games like father had used to, where no one hated anyone. Would the Valar bring her there? If father hated her so much then let her go. Maybe he would be happy then._

 _"Excuse me."_

 _The voice made her jump and she looked up through watery eyes to see a strange man in front of her. He was dressed in a grey robe, ripped and dirty not like the clean ones father always wore. His beard was grey too and long, right down to his belly button and he had a pointy hat._

 _"Excuse me," he said again. His voice was deep and rumbly but not unkind, "I was looking for someone who could show me around the palace. I am rather unfamiliar with the layout."_

 _Sniffling, Nemireth got to her feet, wiping her running nose with the sleeve of her dress, "I-I could, sir."_

 _"And now who might you be?" He leant down to get a closer look at her. He smelt funny, a mixture of sea and something else but she was not scared of him, no matter how tall he was._

 _"Nemireth, I am the princess," Was she? Would father not make her princess anymore if he was cross?_

 _"Are you indeed?" He hmmmed, "Then you may be just the person I'm looking for. Lead on." They were silent for a little while, the princess having to run to keep up with the wizard's big steps as he walked alongside her, "Tell me, Your Highness, why were you crying?"_

 _She felt silly now, trying to talk to this funny man, "Nothing."_

 _"Now, Princess, we cry for many reasons. Very few of them are for nothing."_

 _She thought about it. Why not tell him? He seemed nice, "Father shouted at me. He told me to go away."_

 _He sighed, "I see."_

 _"I don't think he loves me anymore." Fresh tears sprang up in the corners of her eyes._

 _"Now that, I know to be false," He placed a hand on her shoulder, old and wrinkly but somehow warm, "Your father loves you deeply, more than he could ever say."_

 _"Then why did he shout at me? I only wanted a hug."_

 _"Your father is king. And being king is very difficult, yes it is. Kings yell and kings shout, even at the precious thing in their entire world. And you, Princess Nemireth. You will be queen someday. What sort of queen will you be?"_

 _"I won't shout at people." She said it quickly._

 _He chuckled, "You may find that a hard promise to keep to. You went to hug your father, why?"_

 _"He looked sad. I thought…" She stopped and sniffed._

 _"You wanted to help him."_

 _"I guess so."_

 _"And that, Princess Nemireth, you must never lose," He stopped completely and dropped down onto one knee when she stopped too, "A queen can be strong. A queen can be angry but most of all, a queen must help those who cannot help themselves. Even when they don't understand they need that help."_

 _She bit her lip, "I don't understand."_

 _"You won't right now. Perhaps you never will," He sighed, as he put a hand into his cloak and began to search, "But if you listen now, if you remember this day for good and ill, then all will become clear." He produced a flower, the likes of which she had never seen. It had a massive black circle of seeds in the middle with yellow petals all around like a crown. "This is a sunflower. It's from a place called the Shire, somewhere very special to me." He handed it to her and the young Princess cupped it as if it were made of glass, looking up wide-eyed at him, "Trust your instincts, princess. It takes courage to do the right thing even when all others doubt."_

 _He stood, stretching his back with a sigh, "Now I must go speak with your father. But do not worry, our paths will meet again." With that he was gone; the door slamming shut behind him._

* * *

A distant horn blew her awake. For a long while she lay with her back to the noise as men rose with half-slurred greetings and the complaints of men for whom a few extra hours would have been welcome. She waited until most were gone before she too rose though given that she slept in her armour, yet another reason for the fitful sleep she supposed, there was little to do but work out the kinks of the awkward slumber, her mind elsewhere.

The first time she had met Gandalf. She still had that sunflower, still treasured it as one of the greatest gifts she had ever been given; greater than all the gold and jewels from every corner of Aeanor though why she could not say. His words stuck with her most though; _'It takes courage to do what is right._ '

Opening the door to the barn elicited a sharp shiver from the Princess. The wind that blew through was quick and bitter, the clouds grey and thick high above them. It looked like rain but then it had looked like rain every day since she had arrived. Wrapping her arms around herself, she went to where Xiphos stood and looked out to the horizon.

"Your Highness," He nodded eastward, between two hills. It was hard to see but approaching from afar was a column of horsemen though who they were or what banner they flew it was impossible to tell, "We have company."

"Friends?"

"It's a strange way to greet enemies if not." All around them the folk of Edoras had gathered; young and old, men and women alike. They crowded every vantage point, jostling and gabbling in their strange tongue but the buzz in the air was unmistakeable. The fear of the previous day was overthrown, replaced by a childish excitement.

"Have you considered our course of action, Your Highness? If you were to give the word we could be gone before breakfast."

"I have," She took a deep breath to steady herself, eyes closed as she willed herself to take the leap, "We will be staying."

The princess had expected protest, anger or some manner of disbelief but instead Xiphos was silent and that silence clawed at her as a nail digging through her flesh, agonising and enduring.

"May I ask why?"

"Look around, Xiphos," She gestured to the eager faces in every direction; families together, couples holding hands, friends seeking one another out to gossip and celebrate, "These people need us. Their king won't defend them. Their borders are ransacked. How can we leave when things are so dire? If there is a chance we can help them we must take it."

"Helping requires us being able to leave the city, Your Highness. Right now, we can barely leave the barn."

She took a deep breath, "You're right. Maybe they never let us go beyond the city. If that is how it is to be then when…if the enemy comes to Edoras, we shall man the walls. If they will not let us on the walls then we shall defend every street we can. If they won't let us out of the barn, then we shall hold those four walls as if it were the keep of Minas Luin itself."

The Captain sucked in a breath, watching the ever closing column, "The men will not like it."

Nemireth bit her lip, "Maybe not. But it is the right thing to do. The men will learn to live with it. 'My shield shall never waver.' They took the same oath we did."

A shake of the head followed. There was no sense in continuing the debate further for her mind had been made up. They would stay and either they would accept that or she would face the first mutiny in the history of the King's Guard. It was not an appealing thought.

At least the arriving horsemen were a distraction. They were now close enough that she could see the banners fluttering in the wind; the banners of the King? Then a horn blew from amongst their ranks as they approached the city gates and a great cry went up from amongst the people; "Théodred! Théodred has come!"

They gathered in great number, lining the dirt road that led up to the steps of the Golden Hall, where she saw Éomer and Éowyn awaited. These horsemen, Nemireth noticed as she approached, were unlike the marshal's. There were no slouched postures here; no tired men returning from a patrol overwhelmed but soldiers proud and strong, victors of some unknown conflict, warriors through and through.

Leading them with his helmet off was a man dressed in silver mail though he could not have been much older than her. He was fair looking, clean-shaven with a roundish face, long brown hair and a cheeky air. No sooner had he clambered from his horse than he was met by Éomer, "Well, well, Cousin!" The newcomer declared in a loud, bombastic voice, "Have you taken a few hammers to the face since last we met? I do not recall you being so unkempt!"

"And I do not recall you being so soft and short," Was Éomer's terse reply. It lasted only a moment before they embraced and were beset by a fit of uproarious giggles like two children sneaking from their tutor.

"And where is Éowyn?" the maiden approached, and she taken up in a great bear hug, "Look at you! The Lady of Rohan indeed! Edoras must count it's blessings daily."

"Oh, Théodred," Éowyn admonished him but could not help from giggling herself. This was a different Éowyn; bright of spirit and light of heart. Nemireth could not keep from smiling, an expression which vanished rapidly as she met the Lady's eye and with a frantic gesture was beckoned forth, "I would like you meet a guest of ours! This is Princess Nemireth of Ae-"

"-Say no more!" Théodred bounded to her rather like a large, armoured rabbit before bowing deeply and taking her hand as Wormtongue had done that night before kissing it. Was this a common thing in Rohan? It was so…unseemly, "For even in the wild and desolate northern lands have riders brought me news of the Princess Nemireth, though they ought to have sent a bard for not even the purest words of our tongue could do justice to her beauty."

His eyes were grey and sharp and looking right into hers. Nemireth could feel the heat building in her cheeks, "Yes…well…it's an honour to meet you, Prince Théodred."

"We must catch up! You and I shall take a ride together once I am settled and watered. Now, where is the old man?" He looked around theatrically, "Has he grown so long of beard that even the stairs can best him?"

Éomer and Éowyn exchanged looks. "Théodred," The Marshall hesitated, "Your father is not well-"

"Nonsense!" The Prince threw back his head and laughed, "The old sot will outlive us all! Come, Éomer! Let us defeat his greatest nemesis together and make plans for the coming war!"

So was Éomer steered from the crowd and up the stairs while Éowyn and Nemireth watched on. The crowd cheered as Théodred waved from on high before disappearing into the depths of the Golden Hall.

It was only then Nemireth saw Éowyn smiling at her suggestively, "What? What?"

"Nothing," With a shake of her head, the Lady chuckled, "Nothing at all."

The two men were not long gone though they did not return to where the crowd had dispersed but instead took leave into a large tavern at the foot of the Golden Hall. It was to there that both Nemireth and Xiphos were summoned to find it awash with the Prince' men, scrubbing down armour, patching holes and snoring loudly on straw-filled beds.

"Ah! My Lady! Over here!" Théodred beckoned her over to a table where Éomer sat alongside Hama the doorkeeper, each furnished with a frothing mug. The Prince quickly bade them to sit on the two free stools, "Well, it seems that my father is rather indisposed so for the foreseeable future, I shall be seeing to the defence of Rohan. First of all we should-" He paused, sucking air in between his teeth, "First of all, we should see our guests furnished with ale! What are we, hill folk?"

A drink was hurriedly placed in front of each and while Xiphos took a deep swig of his, Nemireth needed only to bring the cup to her nose for her stomach to rebel at the idea.

Fortunately, Théodred did not seem to notice, "Now that is settled, my first act is to appoint Princess Nemireth as a Marshal of Rohan."

"What?" The exclamation was unanimous.

"My Prince, there has never been a female marshal," Hama muttered.

"Well there has never been an Aeanorean drinking ale in the Golden Sow so today is a day of glorious firsts!" Théodred laughed, "She is of royal blood and she commands a host who see to the defence of this realm. Any objections to her appointment?"

Éomer and Hama looked at each other.

"Excellent! Welcome to the army, Princess Nemireth," Another slam of his mug on the table such that its contents splashed everywhere, "Second order of business, I hear her men are currently cooped up here in the capital like sheep in winter. This, my friends, simply will not do! Henceforth Marshal Nemireth's men shall undertake patrols alongside those of my own and Éomer's éoreds. My cousin has nothing but praise for them so it seems a fine shame to waste them in such a barn!"

The council of war, for that was what Nemireth supposed it was, went on and on but mostly it was the Prince of Rohan who spoke in between gulps of ale. Order after order was given; the King's Guard were to be moved to a decent barracks, a reserve was to be created to counter any raids into Rohan's territory, the outmost lands would be abandoned so as to consolidate forces, patrols were to be aggressive, frequent and in strength. She found herself nodding along to this man, this force of nature as he delivered the grand plan by which Rohan would be saved. Was he truly Théoden's son? Perhaps the old king was somehow channelling his zeal to his heir for he seemed to have it endless quantity.

"And the muster, my Prince?" Éomer asked at last.

Théodred chuckled and pointed to the man, "Trust you, Cousin, to ask the one question I hoped no one would! Alas, only my father may summon the muster so as long as he dribbles onto his crotch we shall have to make do! Fear not, my friends, one man of the Rohirrim is worth a dozen of these fiends who dare raid our lands, kill our people and burn our towns. We'll soon have them scampering back to Isengard with their tails between their legs!"

The room cheered at that, men who had been otherwise occupied joining in the hurrah before resuming their work. As the meeting broke up, the Princess was left more dazed than anything.

"That was…something," She managed to Xiphos, who had managed to polish off two further mugs, plus her own during the time they had sat.

"What a man," Her Captain seemed as dazed as she, shaking his head time and time again, "What a man. That's how you defend a country."

"He was good," She allowed, biting her lip. "Not sure the ale was necessary."

"It was very necessary." He laughed, peering at his commander with a curious eye before his chortling returned louder than ever, "Is my princess, my captain, my leader _jealous_ of Prince Théodred?"

"Certainly not!" She turned away so he would not see her blush, "I just think he's a bit…uncouth, that's all."

"The Rohirrim are uncouth so he fits in well." He shook his head, still tittering away to himself, "I will report the good news to the men. We're moving out at last!"

So off he went, back straight and strides long. She watched him go, still chewing on her lip and wondering what it would taken for her to make the Captain march in such a way. Even through her hesitancy, she felt a spark, a feeling she thought had abandoned her after that first meeting with the King and Wormtongue.

Hope had been rekindled.

It was only a few days but the change that had come over Edoras was remarkable. No long was it suffocating under a suffering silence but instead vibrant and upbeat. The sounds of laughter and bartering filled the air, the squeal of children playing competed with the bleating of livestock. It was almost possible to imagine what it could be like in a time of peace.

The change amongst Nemireth's troops was no less stark. No longer bound to a rotten barn, the company had moved to an older barracks that happened to be free nearby. It was as draughty as the barn had been but at least there were beds to sit on and stands to keep weapons and armour from the floor. Above at all else, they were now riding out of the city in groups, paired with smaller detachments of Rohirrim who under the fluttering green banner would disappear for an indeterminate amount of time only to return with tales of victory, of fleeing orcs and rescued homesteads. Each day they seemed to ride further afield and each day the mood amongst the King's Guard lifted. Théodred seemed to have the same effect on them as he had on Xiphos.

All this the Princess pondered as she sat upon the bed and gazed out the window to the city beyond. It felt strange to be wearing loose and flowing robes and not her armour, most of all in the Golden Hall which had been so unwelcoming in the very recent past. All that had changed too, as if the Prince had been a wind blowing away the dust and cobwebs of the old regime. Wormtongue was scant seen anymore except at the side of the king while his men had been not so gently displaced from the palace, their roles as guards taken by yet more of Théodred's veterans. Not that wearing a robe was distinctly unwelcome, it was just-

"Ow!"

Her hair was tugged painfully by the teeth of the brush, snagging and hauling at her scalp. Hand coming up to her head instinctively, she turned to glare at the culprit.

"Sorry!" Éowyn was trying not to laugh as she held the offending weapon away, "There's a particularly tangled part here."

"Was your plan to pull it out at the roots?" Nemireth pouted, "Was that why you invited me? So you could attack me with a hairbrush?"

"I simply could not go another day with it in the state it was," The golden-haired Lady chortled as she returned to work a tad more cautiously, "You have such lovely chestnut brown hair too. Have you considered washing it every so often?"

"Well excuse me, princess." They both laughed.

"It has been a while, I've mostly been brushing mares so I may be a tad rough."

"I'm not sure how I should take that." Nemireth turned to grin at her friend but saw her in expression a little sadness which cut any merriment abruptly short, "You had no ladies-in-waiting?"

A shake of that immaculate blonde head, "It has never been Rohirrim tradition to have such things and…with my Uncle's condition…."

Nemireth nodded in understanding, a look of sympathy being swiftly replaced by a grimace as she was tugged to one side, "Ow!"

"Sorry…"

"Honestly, a troll might be gentler!"

"Do trolls have hairbrushes?"

"I mean, they must do," Nemireth had never considered it, "They do have hair…"

The pair were consumed in giggles, the image of a troll barber refusing to leave either of their minds until at last Éowyn composed herself and they resumed.

"You have see a troll before?" She asked, "Where?"

Nemireth began to tell her of Moria, only to abruptly stop at the thought of their final flight, the monster they had fought and Gandalf's final words, fresh grief bubbling to the surface. Éowyn mercifully and hurriedly moved on, "Things have certainly brightened up since Théodred returned."

"Certainly."

"My cousin spends little time in the capital. He's usually off hunting or visiting the outer lords or patrolling the borders along where the hill-tribes are based. There's a great many tales told of his bravery." A momentary silence. There was something coming, Nemireth could sense it but the delay was proving a little uncomfortable, "Alas, his riding and fighting has left him little time for more…courtly matters…"

"Yes?" The word was drawn out. Nemireth knew already where this was going.

"So he has had little time to spend with the eligible ladies of the realm-"

"-Lady Éowyn, did you lure me to your rooms and attempt to rip my scalp off in an attempt to set me up with your cousin?"

Suddenly the maiden looked a little embarrassed, colour coming to pale cheeks as she cleared her throat, "Well…not entirely. I mean, I did want to fix your hair for you…but I did hear from Xiphos you too are unbetrothed?"

"Not for the lack of father's trying." The tone was a little darker than she intended, defences she thought long gone being slammed shut. "And you? You too are unengaged?"

A momentary hesitation, "Yes, though my Uncle has done much the same as yours." Éowyn puffed her chest out; "A trade then. You shall marry Théodred and I shall marry Xiphos."

The mixture of gasp and snigger that went to escape Nemireth's lips became a rather unladylike snort, but the reaction was both girls again beset with giggles. When they too had passed, Nemireth inhaled deeply.

"I'll talk to him at least, but I make no promises! If he offers me more ale I may have to take a swing for him," She had no idea how her father might react to her becoming engaged to a foreign prince but the idea of that amused her as much as anything. Then Legolas came into her mind and her smile faded, "But…there was someone…"

"Oh yes?" A raised, blonde eyebrow as Éowyn resumed brushing, "Who is he?"

"An elf."

"Oh, very fancy. We don't see many elves in Rohan. I rather got the impression they think we're beneath them."

"Yes…" He had been aloof, distant with her, with the rest of the Fellowship. Was that what he thought of her? That she was beneath him? Was it a childish fantasy that she thought there might be anything? Was there anything? One encounter just before he had left. Likely they would never meet again. She bit her lip and looked away, suddenly feeling very foolish.

"Is he pretty at least?" Éowyn asked.

"Very."

"Did his hair look like a thorn-bush as well?"

"Hah, where's my armour, I may cut myself on that razor-sharp wit of you- _Ow!_ Ow, that one really hurt…"

"It's not my fault!"

"I may just take my chances with the orcs at this rate!"

"Well if you find one with amazing hair on the battlefield, do pass his name to me, I could use a good barber!"

The laughter that followed could surely be heard in Isengard itself.


	18. Chapter 17: Cutting the Roots

They were still losing.

Each day, riders set forth from the walls of Edoras and disappeared over the horizon in all directions. They would return each evening with tales of orc bands destroyed, raids disrupted and villages saved. But still the refugees flowed to the capital from all corners of Rohan, telling tales of farmsteads burned and towns lost. For every raid countered there seemed to be at least two others that were going unchallenged.

"Yet more from the north?" Nemireth scowled as she sat atop Súletal checked over a returning patrol with Xiphos, patting the horse's neck to keep him still. If nothing else, the long rides and constant skirmishes were giving her men something else to focus on other than her and the surroundings they found themselves in. The victories were helping as well, even if they were small and insignificant in the scheme of things. They had escorted a group of refugees from the far northern border that they had encountered on their return, forced to flee after orcs had fallen upon them, "Is there anyone left up there or is as empty as a dry tavern?"

"Oh, you know of taverns, your highness?" Her Captain asked with a sidelong and mischievous look, "I did not realise how fun it was in the imperial palace."

"And I did not realise you were so witty," She bit back her annoyance, in no mood for the teasing of the Aeanorean at this point in time, not when she was looking down on so many tired and frightened faces, "What's Théodred going to do?"

Right now the Prince of Rohan moved amongst the refugees, mounted atop his horse in full armour as if he were about to charge the open field. He seemed sombre, speaking with the surviving villagers with a grave expression but even though she did not understand the language, she recognised the words for 'victory', 'revenge' and 'triumph'. She knew because they were words he had been using constantly as if Saruman's head would be theirs any day now.

"What can he do?" Xiphos replied, "His men can't be everywhere."

"They can't surely believe him when he says we're winning?"

"People will believe a great many things when times get desperate," Xiphos exhaled, "And he has to keep them believing in Rohan. In victory. If he doesn't think the war can be won then why should they?"

She bit her lip, "Does he truly believe the war can be won?"

"I think he does."

"Why?"

"Because the day he stops believing is the day Rohan is lost."

"Princess Nemireth!" Théodred beckoned her over and with a glance at Xiphos, she trotted to him. Súletal tossed his head, frustrated by the slow pace but she calmed him with a pat along his grey neck and whispered soothing words in his ear. She couldn't blame his desire to gallop free now that he was no longer a prisoner in the stables but Théodred was looking on. She dreaded to think of what might happen were he to be set loose, her little more than a passenger atop him and at the mercy of his will. The elves of Lothlórien had cared for him well and she felt no small measure of guilt that in all the time he had been in her care this was the first time he had been able to really stretch his legs. "My people are in your debt!"

"I beg your pardon?" That was not what she had expected.

"We were being chased by orcs, milady," One of the men was looking up at her, weathered and haggard looking but awe in those tired eyes, "We hadn't a chance until your men showed up and chased them off."

"You held your nerve, my man, to keep your family together until help could arrive!" Théodred leant down and clapped the man on the shoulder, "It's with that courage and fortitude that we'll win this war!"

A cheer from the refugees and soldiers who were watching and Théodred rode on, with Nemireth at his side, the refugees shuffling to where Éowyn was marshalling a group of locals to aid them, "I'm impressed, my Lady."

"The King's Guard are the best Aeanor has," She puffed her chest out in pride, "On horseback or on foot."

"They've proved themselves on both thus far," Théodred nodded, "This victory would not have been possible without them."

"Victory, Your Highness?" She raised an eyebrow.

"The orcs wanted to wipe these people out, to see them cold and dead in the ground. By the hand of your soldiers and my men elsewhere, they have not succeeded. And we killed many orcs in the process!"

"Yet there always seems to be more."

"Three things are certain in life, Nemireth; night will follow day, Éomer will never outdrink me and orcs will always be in great number!"

"Then how are we supposed to beat them?"

"Orcs are like weeds," He laughed at her raised eyebrow, a barking laugh that seemed to come both quickly and naturally to the Prince of Rohan, "No, they are! You can cut down as many as you like but until you rip the roots out, they'll be back! And more than before!"

Though she had loved flowers all her life, Nemireth had never once gardened in her life. Did weeds keep coming back if they were cut down? How did such a thing occur? She was sure she understood what he was attempting to say though his laugh at her expression seemed to suggest otherwise, "So when will you be leading this charge on Isengard then?"

Another laugh, "Sooner rather than later, I assure you! In the meantime, we just need to keep weeding the garden and wait for an opportunity to present itself. Kill enough orcs and we buy ourselves all the time we need!"

"And they're just going to present us this opportunity, are they?"

"Our patience shall be rewarded Nemireth, you shall see!"

A call went out from a guard at the gate, "My Lords! Lord Éomer's patrol returns!"

Nemireth sighed and dismounted, still trying to work out how she was supposed to handle the untamed optimism coming from the prince. Being positive was one thing but surely there had to be a limit? Was it hope he was giving them, or false hope? What was the difference? It was different from the usual grim silence her own officers had practised, saying little but commanding nonetheless. Was Théodred's way better? He seemed to have a lot of action, if his stories were anything to go by so was this what worked? Why could there never be a simple answer? A straight yes or no? Why did it always have to be so difficult?

Éomer's party was riding back in a rather loose column, half composed of his own, half of hers. It had been a considerable force, sent out not just to protect the farms and towns close to the River Isen but to attack, to take the fight to any orcs they found, to seek and destroy. The twin banners of Rohan and Aeanor still flew at their head but something was off. The column was thickest in the centre, riders practically tied together, horses moving slowly with the others giving them space. She squinted to try and see what was wrong.

"Open the gate!" Came the shout from the guard alongside her.

The wooden doors were thrown open and in rode the troops. Only when others had rushed to their assistance did Nemireth see what had happened. Quite a number in the column appeared to be wounded and they were swiftly carried off to a nearby tavern acting as a hospital. Others were simply lowered to the ground and covered by their cloaks, blue and green alike, before being carried somewhere less obvious.

 _"Lochía,"_ She approached the junior officer who had commanded the Aeanorean contingent of the patrol, speaking in Ellayan, _"What happened?"_

"Eight men dead, Your Highness," He was a tall and strong man, the Lochía but he looked exhausted, an ugly bruise having formed under one eye, his hair dampened down with sweat and a line of dirt marked by his helmet around his face, "Five more wounded. We fought orcs at a bridge near the Limlight. We drove them off but it was a hard victory. They were larger than those before, and stronger. They withstood our first charge and it took much to repeal them."

Nemireth felt a lump in her throat and nodded, not trusting herself to speak she let the silence hang a moment longer before she felt confident enough to thank him, "Take your men and get some sleep. They have earned their rest tonight."

He bowed and scurried off, pleased to be out of her company no doubt. The men around him were morose and as grim faced as he. Nearby, Éomer and Théodred spoke in hushed whispers while Xiphos sombrely oversaw the dead. There was no celebration here, no cries of triumph or talk of glory. They had faced the enemy. They had won.

Yet still it felt like a loss.

* * *

It was a hard lesson that would slap Nemireth in the face day after day, patrol after patrol. No victory came without cost.

The men of Éomer's patrol had been the first. Now no patrol seemed able to go beyond the view of Edoras without taking losses. Good men, her men, were falling in battle to orcs, to arrows, to these strange new creatures who walked like men and fought like bears. Slowly but surely their strength was chipped away.

Gaps were appearing all over the barracks, beds no longer required by their former masters. Horses were now walked by stable hands, their riders unable to bear them further. Shields and swords were stacked up against one wall of the training grounds, never again to see action in the hands of those who had brought them across the sea.

When not on patrol, the men were quiet and it felt worse when she was present, as if even whispered conversation melted into the air any time she approached. She could feel eyes burning into her back any time she turned away and she could all but hear their accusations. It was her fault they were so far from home. Her fault their families would have to wait weeks to hear of their fate. Her fault they had died for nothing.

It was her responsibility to oversee the services of the dead but Xiphos took over for which she was eternally grateful for. No complaints of overriding her authority, no snide comments about his lack of trust. She wanted him in charge now, to see the fallen off with all the respect they had earned.

The men had piled up pyres of branch and leaf, a mixture of bright green and dark brown and atop these lay their comrades. Each had been anointed with cedar oil the company had brought with them (enough for everyone, Xiphos had remarked with a dark chuckle) and wore cloth imitations of the armoured plate that had been theirs in life. Each held in their arms a simple sword made of two crossed sticks. At Xiphos' signal, the fires were lit.

The men who formed the guard of armour, half Aeanorean and half Rohirrim, stood to silent attention while Nemireth stood with Xiphos and to her surprise, Théodred, Éomer and Éowyn. The former two had dressed in their finest armour, polished to a fine shine while Éowyn wore a dark dress, heads bowed.

Closing her eyes, Nemireth spoke with the other Aeanoreans, voices low and heavy,

 _"Heledron, adar en gwei,_

 _E-semadan i faer en i nearé,_

 _E-anedan ti i-lillaan athan i amar,_

 _An algûl agvas, naeg egor near,_

 _E-lemosan mín galad in i fuin,_

 _Na i meth-o i ambar."_

Heledron, Father of Winds.

Take the souls of the dead.

Let them dance beyond the world.

Never to know hunger, pain or loss.

Be our light in the darkness.

To the end of the world.

They stood like that as darkness fell, illuminated only by the pyre as the smoke caught the wind and disappeared into the night. At last, Xiphos took his spear and drove the end against the ground with a sharp thump,

"Eru, stand with them."

"We stand together." Those in attendance uttered together before breaking up, leaving one soldier for each pyre. Their task was to stand watch over the fallen, to see them safely to the next life.

"Nemireth," Éowyn struggled to catch up in the dress and so the Princess slowed to make it easier, "I'm sorry for your losses. All Rohan is sorry for your losses."

"They died doing their duty," She said the words without truly meaning it, "They're in the hands of the Winds now."

"The winds?"

"The Ellayans believe that the souls of the dead are released when we burn them and that they travel the eternal wind of Heledron, the Father of Winds. They believe that any time you can feel the wind, they're watching you."

"There's something wonderfully poetic about that."

It didn't feel poetic. It had never felt poetic but what could she do but smile and nod as Éowyn rushed to catch up with Xiphos.

"I am sorry."

The voice was that of Éomer and it was now he who took the place of his sister as they returned to the city.

"Thank you."

"Not like that," He snapped before hurriedly calming himself with a deep breath, "It's my fault they're dead. I did not anticipate the strength of the Uruks."

"A simple mistake, Lord Éomer," What else could she say to him? That yes, it was his fault her men lay dead? This was war. It had just never occurred to her that there would be casualties. "Anyone could have made it."

"For all Théodred's bluster, he does occasionally speak the truth. Your men fought well. We are lucky you stand with us."

The urge to ask why he had not thought it would be case before rose up but this was an olive branch and now was not the time to be picking fights. "Thank you, Éomer. We are happy to stand with you still." She had almost said 'no matter the cost' but found she could not.

She had no idea what the cost would be.

* * *

The cost kept mounting.

That day had only been the first of many such funerals. No longer did patrols ride back with talk of unbroken victories. Now they spoke of orcs mixed with these new fighters, the Uruk Hai, and even though they won as often as they lost, the casualties were similar in each regard. Funerals were becoming a daily occurrence, yet more words spoken in their honour, yet more empty bunks, yet more sombre faces.

Still the refugees piled into Edoras. How Éowyn was finding places to put them, she had no idea.

And still Théodred's rhetoric did not change. "One chance!" He would say, "That's all we need! One chance!"

But the chance did not come and their time was running out. At the rate they were going, Nemireth was sure that no matter how great an opportunity the White Wizard gave them, there would simply not be enough troops left to take it.

It was these thoughts she tried to keep from her mind as she watched the men drilling, training swords clashing in the square as they kept themselves sharp. Xiphos stood with her, silent, as if he sensed her mood and knew better than to bait her now.

"Are you going to scowl all day?" He finally broken the silence.

"It's not scowling."

"Oh, I apologise, Your Highness. Would you prefer growling? Glaring? I can think of a few others if need be."

"I'm not in the mood, Xiphos."

"And that is precisely why I'm going to come up with more. Frown. Glunch. Burning."

"Shut up." She punched him on the arm, unable to keep a little smile from tugging at her lips. "Thank you."

"What else am I here for but to cheer up my Princess and see a smile on that radiant face? Though of course, there is now a contender for my affections."

"What?" She saw where he was looking, beyond the training grounds to where a golden-haired maiden was seeing to the grain being handed out to the refugees. At that, she had to suppress a giggle, "You are joking surely? You and Éowyn?"

"I don't see why not. Nothing can stand in the way of our love!"

"I can think of an Éomer-shaped thing that might do just that."

"The great Wind Father himself could not split us apart," He held a hand to his heart, "We were destined to be together, forever and a day."

The incredulous Princess was unable to think of a single word to say before the runner appeared, his approach betrayed by the frantic chinking of armour as he hurried to them, "Your Highness!" He bowed to her, a remarkable change from just a few days ago, "I apologise, but Prince Théodred wishes to see you immediately."

The Prince was, as ever, located in the Golden Sow, which seemed to be succeeded the Golden Hall as the centre of Rohan's defence. Normally it was filled with men drinking, cheering some win or another, boasting of tales and stories. Frequently Aeanoreans would join them when not on duty. Xiphos had permitted it, said it gave the men a chance to unwind between patrols and skirmishes.

"Nemireth!" Théodred had been sitting with Éomer and a rather exhausted looking man clad in Rohirrim armour but now he leapt over the table, practically vaulting to get to her, "We have it! Our chance!"

"Pardon me?" She looked from the overeager prince to his cousin, a more morose figure these days who seemed much less enthused by the news.

"We have our chance! A chance to get at the roots!" He gestured frantically to the sitting man, "Tell her what you told me!"

"An army," Was the answer, "An army marching from Isengard. Several thousand strong. Uruk Hai and orcs alike. They set off just yesterday,"

"And you count this as an opportunity?" Still her eyes flicked from Théodred to Éomer and back again.

Steering her to the map, Théodred pointed to it, towards the northern point. Along a little ribbon of what she assumed was water, she read the name, 'the Ford of Isen'.

"If we can get to the ford before them, we can trap them! Kill enough and we drive them back for weeks, maybe even months! We'll need every man we can spare ready to ride as soon as possible!"

"Théodred-" Éomer tried to speak but the Prince cut across him.

"Come now, Éomer! We're not letting this moment go to waste! I need your éored and every other man you can spare! You too Nemireth, we need those shields and spears at Isen as soon as we can!" He clapped his hands impatiently when neither moved, "Chop chop! We don't have all day!"

He turned his attention back to the scout while Nemireth and Éomer left the pub. Only once they were outside did the Marshall let out a deep sigh, "One day he will listen. I swear it to the heavens themselves, one day he will listen."

"You don't seem so eager."

"He's been waiting for this news for weeks and he knows how desperate the situation is." Éomer cast a worried glance back to where his cousin dwelt, "We best do as he says. Hopefully we can talk some sense into him before we march."

There they parted, Éomer striding to where his men resided and Nemireth hovering in place, hesitant. This seemed to be what Théodred had wanted. A set piece battle to decide the fate of Rohan once and for all. A chance at a lasting victory. Tear the weeds out at the root.

Yet she felt nothing but dread for what was to come.


	19. Chapter 18: The Night Before

Many things had changed since Théodred had returned to Edoras but none of that influence seemed to have extended to the Golden Hall.

The seat of the kings of Rohan was as dark and as frigid as it had been when last she visited, Théoden slumped upon his throne, head sagging ever lower as if the last vestiges of life were draining from him with his advisor anchored to his side. The atmosphere was as cold as the hearth-less hall, movement from the shadows as men not dressed in the armour of the Rohirrim skulked in the corners of the room. Wormtongue's eyes kept flicking between the trio as if trying to predict where an attack would come from and she stared him down each time. It did not keep her skin from crawling, recalling the darkness of his room, the acrid smell of his breath and every nerve called for her to look away but she resisted. She could sense how Éomer tensed each time he took his eyes from her, fists clenching and unclenching.

Of all the people in the room, Théodred alone seemed immune to the hostility, his voice loud and confident, "So with your blessing father, I will take all three éoreds in the capital along with Nemireth's company and ride north. Éomer will split and rally men along the eastern road while Nemireth and I will ride with all haste. We will meet with Grimbold at Elfwine's Crossing and then split our forces; Grimbold and I shall ride to the Ford while Éomer and Nemireth take the old river to the east. Once the orcs arrive, we will charge across the river at them and then retreat to Elmhill, drawing them across to our side. Éomer and Nemireth can then ride out from the old river and cut off their retreat, allowing us to finish them off on the open field," He clapped his hands together, "I trust that is all in order?"

Wormtongue sucked in air between his teeth, "You plan to take the king's éored to battle without the king?"

"If my father wishes to ride out to battle with me then he is more than welcome to do so!" No more than a cursory glance was needed to demonstrate that he would not. Théoden King could not so much as lift his head never-mind a weapon, "In that case, I shall ride at the head of our army. The glory I'll earn shall be entirely my fathers for I am merely a humble servant of his will." He bowed, somewhat mockingly, brown hair falling over his face.

"You risk much, young prince," Wormtongue shook his head, "I would council against the move."

At that, Nemireth rolled her eyes. Of course he would. For when had Wormtongue ever approved of anything so rash as 'action'? If they were follow his master strategy to defend Rohan they would sit and do nothing until the orcs were knocking on the gates of Edoras.

"Your council has been noted, Lord Gríma," Théodred bowed in what clearly a mocking gesture, "I shall carry it with me as I ride into battle. If there is no objection from my father then we must leave at once. The orc army is already on the move and we will need to be quick to beat them there! This will be a victory for the ages!"

Théoden looked up. For one long second Nemireth thought he would actually speak, puffing his chest out in the manner he did. Even Wormtongue looked surprised but the burst of energy was all too brief. With a wheeze, he slumped back, long fingernails scrapping at his chair.

"The king gives you his blessing," Wormtongue said after a hesitation, "Ride well, my prince. May the blessings of Rohan go with you."

The trio bowed and went to leave.

"My Lady, may I have a word with you? Alone?"

Her heart sank, but Théodred merely clapped her on the shoulder and grinned, ignoring the worried look of his cousin, "We shall see you for the march, my lady! Be there shortly!"

Try as she might, Nemireth could not find the words to reply, to ask them to stay or to turn down the person whom she wanted to spend time alone with least in the world. Instead she could only watch tight-lipped as they left, door closing shut behind them. Then the only noise were the soft thumbs of leather soles upon a stone floor.

"My Lady," He approached but mercifully halted well short, though perhaps the murderous look she shot his way was enough to check his confidence, "This will take only a minute."

"It had better," She snapped, "I must prepare for the battle."

"It is the battle, I wished to speak to you about. I do not approve of Théodred's plan. I grew up in the area of which he speaks and there are…concerns, that I have."

"Doubtless you can call on countless years of battlefield experience, my lord," A dry and humourless smile, "But until you reveal such to me, I shall continue to trust in the Prince."

"My prince is young, aggressive and far too trusting. By whose hand does he seek battle? His own, or that of Lord Éomer?"

"His own, of course," Though she was not so sure of the answer herself.

"Of course," A sly nod. How did he always know when she was anything but confident? "Beware the hand of the marshal in Théodred's affairs. He has ambitions far beyond his station. Today, a marshal. Tomorrow, a war hero. Perhaps one day, a king…" He left his sentence hanging like smoke in the air.

Éomer overthrow his uncle? The thought was madness, a fantasy, "You see demons everywhere, Wormtongue." Was her reply, practically spat at him.

"As is my duty, My Lady, to see the threats to my liege and see them dealt with. My only goal is to see Théoden King sit atop the throne for as long as he is fit to do so."

"Because he's currently a paragon of decisive leadership, is that it?" Her patience was ebbing away, chipped from her by the constant wordplay and that low, melancholic voice that refused to fall silent no matter what she said.

A deep intake of breath, "Treasonous words, Princess," He all but hissed the words, "I'm sure you'd much prefer to see Éomer on the throne than Théoden King."

"Well, he could hardly do a worse job could he?" The Princess shook her head, her patience gone, "Now if you're done flicking your tongue, I have a battle to prepare for. Doubtless you'll be here to whisper further in my ear when I return." And with a sweep of her cloak, she took her leave.

* * *

For a while Nemireth chewed over whether to tell Théodred or Éomer of the meeting's contents, of the poisonous lies that Wormtongue had tried to feed her. She debated while the troops prepared their supplies and gathered their weapons. She debated as they grouped up and mounted their horses and she debated as the pair approached her; each leading their mounts by the reins.

"It seems it is truly possible after all," Théodred chuckled, "The Princess Nemireth has been silent for such a long while that I fear Wormtongue may have stolen her voice and replaced it with his own!"

There was no more holding back and her account of the meeting burst forth from her as water from a ruptured dam. Éomer looked outraged but Théodred merely threw back his head and laughed aloud for which he was rewarded by a disbelieving stare from the princess.

"Théodred?"

"Oh, Wormtongue and his tales," He had to force the words out from between gasps of air, "Truly the man missed his calling! We should be having him write books for al the children of the land to read in their beds! Oh, that is a terrible thought," He pulled a face, "A fairy tale written by Wormtongue. Ancestors preserve us if such a thing should ever come to pass."

"Théodred," Éomer was glaring at him.

"Oh yes, yes, very well," He waved his hand dismissively, "When I get back, I'll see Wormtongue is put in his place. Relax, cousin! Save that anger for the orcs!"

Despite her confession, Nemireth felt strangely empty as the Prince led them towards the gates of Edoras. She had told him everything, and he had merely laughed it off. Did he not believe her? Was this another example of him merely acting one way but feeling another? She was not so sure about that. The laughter had been genuine, as if she had just broken out a particularly funny joke. Nothing of what Wormtongue had said had been funny. At least Éomer had been suitably angered. The Princess dreaded telling Xiphos the same. Perhaps she would wait until they were well out of range of the city before she broke that news. With a sigh, she tried to suppress the ill-feeling in her stomach, for there were other matters to attend to.

A great crowd had assembled along the main street as the host of Rohan trotted onwards, with only the three leaders dismounted. Some clapped, others cheered or called Théodred's name, which he responded to with general waves to the crowd but most were silent, sombre even. Was it that Théodred was once again leaving them at Wormtongue's mercy? Or was it that he was bringing most of the soldiers of the capital with him?

Waiting for them at the gates was Éowyn and Nemireth felt a great stab of guilt at seeing her expression. She wore it well, but the worry was clear in her eyes, so intense that the Princess felt it wash over her as they approached. First to meet her was Théodred, who wrapped her up in a great hug, lifting her off her feet.

"Farewell, cousin!" He barked in merriment, "Look after the place while we're gone! Keep the beds ready and the casks topped up, for we'll have much to celebrate on our return!"

"Be careful, Théodred," Éowyn's voice wavered as they parted, "Don't do anything foolish."

"When do I ever?" A cheeky grin as he grabbed Nemireth and pulled her to his side, before she could do much to stop him. Behind her she could the mutters of her men at seeing their commander and Princess manhandled so, "Besides, I have this one now to keep an eye on me!"

Shaking herself loose of his grasp, she went to bow but Éowyn swept her up in a hug that before too long she was returning.

"Look after yourself, Nemireth," Éowyn whispered to her, "You had better come back."

"I will," Was all she could say back to her, "And I won't forget to look."

"What for?"

"The orc with the best hair on all the battlefield."

They giggled as they parted, Nemireth stepping aside to allow Éomer to approach his sister. There were no words between them, no whispers of 'good luck' or 'farewell' but a long and deep embrace that the Princess was sure would never break. Only with some reluctance did they separate. Now she could see the look in Éowyn's features, no longer just longing but fear and perhaps even a little jealousy. How did it feel to simply watch the ones she loved ride off to battle? With no certainty that they would ever return? She spared a quick glance for the blue-cloaked troops who waited in column just behind her and felt that guilt bubble up stronger than ever. How many had done just this before they had boarded the ships? How many had whispered promises and sworn their return. Her mind forced itself from that track as she mounted up and they rode out, not willing to entertain the thought any further than that.

* * *

Everything was going to plan.

A thousand horses and soldiers had trotted up the northern road towards the river Isen, with stops infrequent and short, the overnight halts only slightly longer. The only change in the routine was as Éomer broke off from the main force, leading his men eastwards in search of more spears. It was hard going but there were few complaints, for Théodred's relentless energy seemed to drive everyone onwards through the hunger and the tiredness. On Nemireth's part, the novelty of seeing Rohan had faded quickly once she realised much of it was little more than hills, rocks and forests, a repetitive landscape after so many hours of riding. It did not help that her thighs were aching from so long in the saddle, such that she was practically limping any time she was able to step down from Súletal for more than a few minutes, to Xiphos' considerable amusement. There was little time for chat; the Prince would not allow it. Dismount, huddle around whichever fire was closest, gulp down the watery, tasteless soup that passed for food with the Rohirrim then back on the horses and away again.

It was with no small relief that they came to a point where two roads crossed and from which the river could be heard bubbling loudly nearby. Camped already were a number of Rohirrim under the command of Grimbold, a tall and dour man with a wild beard that was a rather stark contrast to the ever enthusiastic Théodred. His men had arrived the previous day and made camp as commanded, though he had not been idle, sending scouts across the ford to locate this orc army as well as the entrance to the dried-up river, barely perceptible even as she knew what to look for.

The news the Rohirrim lord delivered was not good, "They are closer than I was led to believe." He said in a deep voice. "Their camp looks to have a thousand in numbers."

"We're evenly matched then," Xiphos observed.

"Not quite the horde I had hoped for but there will still be glory to be won," Théodred nodded hiding any disappointment he may have had that Isengard would not give him his set piece battle, "They've not yet crossed the ford?"

"No. They're a half-day's ride away."

"Marvellous! Our plan is still on course. If both wings of the army leave tomorrow at dawn then we should meet them at the ford itself."

"You're not worried that they may know of this dried river, Théodred?" The question had been bugging her for the entire march but only know had she the breath to bring it up.

He shook his head, "It's long been overgrown and forgotten by all but the people who live close by. It is quite by chance that Éomer and I know of it, an adventure that I shall tell you after the battle." The Prince of Rohan looked around his hastily gathered council, "Then it's battle tomorrow, my friends! Rest up tonight, eat well and sleep heavy for tomorrow we win this war for Rohan!"

His confidence was encouraging but as Nemireth half walked, half limped back to where her men had gathered around a few hastily built fires, she found that she did not share in it. The ill-feeling from Edoras had not remained in the city as she had hoped. Perhaps it was the gruel that awaited in the nearest pot, the mere smell of which was turning her stomach. Valar forbid that someone could have had the grace to introduce the Rohirrim to spices.

Xiphos laughed as she hobbled with all the majesty of a wounded swallow in flight and not at all like either an officer or a royal, "Is my beloved princess sore from the day's ride?"

"Not as sore as you'll be if you don't stop laughing," She huffed but had little more energy than to collapse in the warm embrace of the fire and accept the steaming bowl offered to her. She took one sniff then glanced up into Xiphos' eyes, "Must I?"

"Well, the alternatives are bark or the dried straw we're feeding to the horses."

"I see, tell me more about this bark option…"

Another chuckle and shake of his head as the Captain rose, "Finish that as soon as you can and settle to sleep, your majesty. Tomorrow is going to be quite a busy day. I will set up the watch."

So eat it she did under protest, or at least half of it, with the other half going into the grass at her feet. The camp was surprisingly quiet even through everyone was gathered in groups around their fires. Only the occasional muttered conversation punctured the sound of whinnying, snorting horses and the scrape of stone on steel. In this there was no difference between the Aeanoreans or the Rohirrim, each in their own little world as they considered what was to come. There was no measure of relief as people began to break and head to their tents with murmured goodbyes.

Her roll was rough and course against her skin but still better than what the King had first offered when he arrived so that was not why she tossed and turned, nor the wind which swept between the rows of tents to set strings quivering and flaps flicking open wildly. The Princess found no matter how hard she tried to force herself, sleep simply would not come to her. Was it the fluttering in her stomach something she had ate? Maybe, though she did not recall this feeling of dread anywhere else but when in Moria. That and Lothlorien when she had needed to tell the Fellowship of her leaving. Even now it stung to recall their confusion, their hurt, their anger.

 _I did what was right._

The thought did not make the pain leave.

With a sigh of defeat, Nemireth rose, determined to sit by the fire for a while. Perhaps the fresh air would chase some of the cobwebs away and encourage her to rest. No sooner had she pulled back the flap of her tent though than she saw who was sitting at her fire.

"Princess," For once Théodred did not bellow her title but gestured silently to join him, something she had no choice but to accept, "Can't sleep?"

She shook her head.

"A common thing amongst those who've not seen battle. And even those who have."

"I've seen battle before." She blurted out, annoyed at his unspoken insult.

"Oh yes? Your captain must have been mistaken then. Where did you fight?"

Nemireth was about to tell him everything, about the battle in the tomb of Balin, Lord of Moria, the flight to the bridge, facing down a balrog! Théodred had never faced down a balrog! But then came the memory of Gandalf and her lips snapped shut, allowing the crackle of the fire to take over the conversation between them.

"There's no shame in not having seen battle, Nemireth," Théodred returned to his sword, which he was carefully tending to with a whetstone, "Everyone must face it sooner or later."

Biting down her frustration, the Princess contented herself with a glower which the Prince did not seem to notice. They sat a little longer before he looked at her suddenly, young face lit by the dancing flames, "Do you believe in fate, Nemireth?"

"Fate?" She pursed her lips. Her fate was to become queen of Aeanor. Whether it was a good thing for her or the kingdom, she was not yet sure, "I don't know."

"I do," He tapped at the chest of his ornately decorated breastplate where there was a clear indentation, "You see this? This was from a battle with orcs on our northern front. An archer hit me right on the heart! The arrow pierced metal and cloth, skin and bone, but it stopped just shy of my heart," He pinched his thumb and forefinger together, "By this much. It knocked me out of course so I was slumped in my saddle, completely at the mercy of our enemies and you know what happened? Brego brought me back to camp. Over hills and valleys, through streams and forests he found my men again. Do you know what that taught me?"

"That the orcs need to sharpen their arrowheads?"

"That I was not meant to die there, Nemireth of Aeanor! There is a greater purpose for me. Now my father ails and the kingdom's defence is in my hand. We go to battle because it is destiny that we do so!"

"And here I was thinking it was because of the big orc army on the other side of the river."

"It is not our place to question the means of those higher powers who move the pieces, Nemireth. We merely accept whatever moves they make." He rose with a stretch, sliding his blade into it's sheath silently, "Get some rest, Princess. For tomorrow will be the most glorious day in all the history of Rohan."

Off he strode with back straight and chest puffed out, hair flowing in the breeze without a single care in the world. Nemireth stayed at the campfire and looked into the flames, feeling something more than warmth against her skin. For the first time she felt it truly, optimism. Théodred was an excellent warrior and his men loved him. The plan made sense and when it worked, the orc army would be destroyed. A victory for the ages, he had said. She would play her part. Aeanor would play her part and when the grandchildren of Rohan spoke of this day, they would speak of her and her men. Proof to her men that she was not some spoilt child out of her depth, prove to Xiphos that she could lead in battle.

A great deal more relaxed, she returned to her tent and sleep found her readily. For the morning would bring battle and victory.

* * *

She was thrown awake by the sounds of trumpets and screams.

Sitting up in her bedroll, the princess saw fire, flickering just beyond her tent. Shapes and shadows moved around her; horses, men, something else. Horses whinnied, men shouted to one another in panic. Swords rang against one another.

Nemireth sat and watched all this going on around her, mouth agape in disbelief. Her mind screamed at her to rise, to grab her sword and help but her muscles refused to move, stunned. The flap of her tent was thrown open but it was no human which entered. There stood an orc, black and twisted, rough skin thick with piercings, curved blade dark with blood. He looked at her and grinned widely, exposing sharp and broken teeth.

"Hello girly," He took a step forward, brandishing his weapon. Her own sword was behind him. Why had she not had it closer? Cold terror filled her veins, "You are a pretty one-"

A blinding light threw him into shadow and cut him off with a loud shriek of pain, covering his eyes as if he had been burned. He turned his back to her entirely as if he had forgotten she was there.

 _Move!_ Her mind screamed and the princess scrambled for her weapon before lashing up, undisciplined and shapeless. The blade bit deep and with a bone-chilling scream he fell, writhing on the ground before she finished him. Looking around, breathing hard, Nemireth looked for the source of the light only to see her shield sitting in the corner. The elven shield. Had it known she was in danger? Had it sensed orcs?

It was no time to think about it. Grabbing and strapping it to her arm, the Princess took a breath to steady herself and pushed out into the night.

All about her was chaos. Men and orcs duelled amongst burning tents and upturned pots. Horses cut free of their reins galloped wild and uncaring of who or what crossed their paths. The dead lay all around, limbs, viscera, the trampled grass black and red in equal measure. It was everywhere. No battle lines. No order. This was not how it was supposed to be. This was not how war was fought. The howls of wounded made her shiver fiercely.

Then over it all, a voice, "Nemireth!"

Xiphos grabbed her by the arm. Her first instinct was to throw herself into him, an embrace to protect her against the horror that surrounded her. Looking into his sharp face, she saw a deep bruise on his cheek and blood. His blood? No.

"Thank the Winds you're not hurt," His eyes swept over her, jaw set firmly. Content with what he found, he let go and turned about, _"Araharné! E-pellanvan thalion!"_

 _"Anun!"_ Came the reply and it was only then she saw that her tent was surrounded by soldiers. Not all the King's Guard had their breastplates. Some did not have their helms. Others were without cloaks or spears. Some were even missing their shields, standing behind those who had. In front of them, the orc bodies had piled up.

"Xiphos…" She said nothing more. What could she say?

He seemed not to hear her, striding up and down the square and barking orders. She had never seen him like this. No laughing. No joking, an edge to his voice that men listened to.

"Xiphos!" She shouted and this time he did turn, "Where's Théodred?"

A sharp shake of the head.

"We need to find him!"

"There's too many, Princess!" He all but snarled and she felt herself shrink before him, "We must hold until dawn!"

She felt something within. A spark that drove her to reply, "If he falls, Rohan is lost! To his tent! That is an order, Commander!"

Her captain made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a growl before calling out, _"Araharné! Mosaran ensan! Mosaran an i caun!"_ He brought the whistle to his lips and blew two sharp notes.

 _"Anun!"_

The entire formation began to shuffle through the camp. They kicked over tents, stepped over the dead and cut down any orcs who dared cross their paths. Men fell out of the formation. Some brought down by arrows. Others brought down by spears. Still the formation advanced. For every man who fell, another joined them, dishevelled and bloody Rohirrim whose round shields added to the wall as it pushed forward. Nemireth stuck close to the front, slaying any who made it past the wall of shields, sword biting deep again and again. A gap opened in front of her, the Aeanorean chopped down by an axe. She made to fill the gap.

"Don't you _dare_!" Xiphos bellowed at her, grabbing her by the shoulder and ripping her back to his side.

Théodred's tent had not been far away. What was left of it was engulfed in fire. There were so many dead. Men in green lay still everywhere she laid her eyes but in the midst of the camp, she saw a sword swinging.

"Come on, boys!" A familiar voice called, "The night will be ours!"

Théodred!

She could see him! Blonde hair wild as he parried and hacked with all the skill she had expected, Grimbold beside him. A ragged shield wall had gathered before him but time and again the orcs surged against it. The Aeanoreans quickened their pace. They were so close.

The Uruk-Hai attacked.

They looked more like men than orcs. Skin the colour and texture of coal, muscles bulging and backs straight. They did not screech and squeal like the orcs but snarled and rumbled like predators hunting their prey. They wore thick armour and carried long, wicked weapons, more like iron bars than swords and with terrible cries they fell upon the Rohirrim. The shield wall collapsed almost immediately, men fighting desperately for their lives. Others had launched themselves at the Aeanoreans and suddenly all progress stopped. No longer were they slicing through a rabble of orcs but monsters with the ferocity of caged beasts. Holding their ground was enough. One came at her and she struck with her shield. The blow barely moved him. The spear of the Guard behind did little to slow him. Only when Nemireth sliced her sword across his throat and drew forth foul, black blood did he collapse from her. No sooner was he gone than another took his place.

Ahead, she watched as Théodred killed one, and Grimbold another. A third challenged him and then a fourth. The fifth found his mark. She watched as the golden-haired Prince fell.

"Théodred!" She looked around desperately, holding her sword tighter in her grasp.

" _Araharné!_ " Xiphos bellowed, " _Mosaran!_ "

" _Anun!_ " The ranks behind pressed. Those in front were driven forward, lunging and stabbing. The Uruks facing them fell back or died.

" _Mosaran!_ "

" _Anun!_ " Another step. Again, the attackers stepped back.

" _Mosaran!_ "

" _Anun!_ " The last of the Uruks died where they stood, just as the ranks passed around the marshal of Rohan and the fallen Prince he protected. She rushed to his side, falling to her knees as she pulled damp, red-soaked hair from his sweaty face. He was pale, his breathing slight. But he was alive.

Horns rang out from the opposite side of the camp. The thundering of hooves. The whinnying of horses. The battle cries of men.

The riders of Rohan swept through the camp with their banners aloft and spears lowered. Like a flood they washed away the filth of Saruman until the only enemies who remained lay dead amongst the grass. Still she stayed with him, cradling his head in her hands, unsure of what to do. Was there a healer? She never thought to ask. What supplies were left? How had the orcs made it right into their camp?

These thoughts swirled as she became aware of a frantic voice shouting above her, "Théodred! Let me through!"

Éomer approached, his horse stamping at the ground and breathing hard. He was staring unblinking at his cousin.

"Éomer!" Nemireth had to shout to get his attention, "He's alive! He needs healing!"

"Give him here! Help him up!" She, Xiphos and other men helped up onto Éomer's horse and without another word he kicked his stirrups and then he was gone, galloping hooves disappearing into the distance. The Princess watched him go, leaving behind a field of blood and fire and death, the ashes of Théodred's glorious victory.

* * *

 **AN: Sorry this too so long to write! I wasn't sure on how to handle this battle given its importance at this point in the story. I thought about having it go as it does in canon but then set upon this idea as more impactful, unexpected and shows the threat of the orcs better than the canon version in my opinion! Big thanks as ever to everyone who's reviewed, fav'ed and followed so far, you guys are awesome! I'm not particularly good at author notes so I don't write these often but I do appreciate every interaction with the story, it really helps motivate!**


	20. Chapter 19: The Morning After

Before the sun had fully crested the hills of Rohan to shine a light on the horrors of the previous night Nemireth was mounted atop Súletal and away. She did not ride at the head of her men as she had the previous day but in the middle, a strong guard in front and as many men behind. A few would remain behind to tend to the casualties but Xiphos had insisted they remain no longer than was necessary. The Princess had found no way to protest, allowing herself to be swept up by her captain in the same bloody clothes and taken from the Ford of Isen. She had remained only long enough to speak with Grimbold, the marshal commanding what was left of Rohan's forces. Though Théodred himself had given her the same title as the man, it took only a second of standing in his towering presence with fierce eyes and thick blade black with the blood of his foes to see how insignificant the title was.

The enemy had fled towards the river and Grimbold had sent men in pursuit. It took little time for them to see them across the Isen for good, past the startled guard who had been set to watch the river for signs of the enemy. They had not come their way, they insisted. That left only one spot and a large scouting party confirmed it. From the location of the dried up river, the men set to watch it were dead and at the very end was a great camp which could have held hundreds, if not thousands.

"They were waiting for us," The Marshal had spat at his feet, disgust coating every word, "This was never a battle. This was an ambush waiting to happen. Someone betrayed us."

"Maybe they found the dried riverbed themselves?" Nemireth could not believe she had disagreed with him. Even now she could see the lividness in his eyes, a look that made her wilt and blush in sheer foolishness. She should have kept her mouth shut but in the daze of the sudden and violent encounter, she had said the first thing that had come to her.

"And they just happened to know where we would make camp? They just happened to know when Théodred would arrive? They just happened to know what numbers they would need to overwhelm us?" He had shook his head and growled not unlike a bear, "No. We were betrayed. By one of our own."

Those words rang in her ears as they rode at a brisk pace, far faster than they had approached, as if fleeing from the discovery, retreating from the truth. All throughout the column were silent, men exhausted from the battle doing all they could to keep hold of their weapons and shields without falling out of the saddle. A few held food in their cloaks while others had grabbed waterskins but it was a ragged group who headed south once more. Few Rohirrim had joined them, for Grimbold had decided he would hold the ford with what men he had left. They were words he had said without confidence, for he had far too few men to repel an attack even half the strength of that which had overtaken them in the night.

They had gone north to free Rohan from Isengard. What they had done instead was hand it to them on a silver plate.

Nemireth felt like she was going to be sick.

Her eyes were heavy but she was wide awake for the entirety of the return journey, replaying the final scenes of battle in her head. Théodred standing amongst his men, his encouragement flowing as freely as the ale from his tavern. Théodred surrounded by Uruk-Hai. Théodred falling.

She found herself turning her eyes skywards, gazing upon the sombre gloom which was greeting them in the pale sunlight, "Heledron," She whispered the name of the Wind Father, words little more than a breath fogging before her lips, "If you can hear me, please give Théodred strength, let him see another day."

It took a full day but as the sun began to dip once more behind the rocky horizon, Edoras loomed into view. Their pace quickened, having no desire to be caught beyond its walls in such shape. Nothing about the city had changed; the same wooden palisade, the same square houses, the same stone hall above all but it could have been a world away for how cold and unwelcoming it looked. It had been two days since they left. It felt like an age of the earth had gone by in that time.

Once beyond the gates and in the marshalling yard, Nemireth clambered from Súletal and nearly collapsing as her legs threatened to give out beneath her. Only a quick snatch at her saddle saved her from falling to her knees in the mud. Others did fall, no longer able to hold themselves up while others fell against their horses or leant against their spears, exhaustion threatening to overwhelm them.

" _Araharné! Omáran!"_ Xiphos' voice was sharp as he blew on his whistle. The men began to shuffle into formation.

"Captain," Her voice was strained, even to her, "Must we do this now? Can't they rest?"

"They are soldiers of the King's Guard, your Highness. They are our best. Our standards will not slip," The Aeanorean's black hair was slicked back to his armour, the welt on his face was growing no smaller and the blood had dried black against his face, a creature from nightmares, but still he stood tall, still his eyes scanned his men with a sharpness that belied the full night of battle and day of riding. He could have been dragged through Mordor itself and Xiphos would have blown that whistle. Meanwhile, she was barely able to speak, let alone inspect anyone. How could she? She knew she looked a greater mess than any of them.

As it was, he took only a moment to look them over. By the Valar, had they left so many behind at Isen? There were so few standing to attention. She found she did not even want to think about it, mind rebelling at the mere idea. A sharp whistle made her wince as her men were dismissed to their bunks, to the tavern, to the healers. No one would begrudge them wherever they spent their time.

Nemireth's body was crying out for sleep but all she did was hand off her weapon and shield to Xiphos before heading towards the Golden Hall. She had to know, even if she had to hobble every step of the way she had to know. The stairs were torture, taking each in the same way one would climb a cliff. For once she barely noticed the wind which whipped at her cheeks and had both hair and cape billowing. Even at the top, Hama provided no challenge. The Doorkeeper looked as shaken as she felt and let her through with a curt nod.

Waiting for her on the other side was Éowyn.

Her eyes were puffy and red, her complexion ashen-white. It was as if some power had sucked all joy from her and left only the darkness she saw in front of her.

Nemireth wanted to say something but found no words. What could she say? Sorry for not reaching him in time? Sorry for not talking him out of it before? Sorry for beginning to believe what he had said of destiny?

Before she could say any of this, Éowyn approached and threw her arms around her in a great hug. Nemireth hugged back. Only when they parted could she finally speak, "How is he?"

"Not well," The Lady of Rohan exhaled deeply, "The wound is infected. He," She stopped, fresh tears gathering behind her eyes.

"Where is he?"

Théodred lay in a nice room; spacious and with a window out to the plains below. There was room for a double bed, a desk and even a great stack of books of which she could see only a few spines. What caught her gaze most were the toy soldiers, the horsemen and warriors atop the desk and lovingly placed along the shelves. This had to have been Théodred's room. He had grown up here, the Golden Hall his home as much as Minas Luin was hers.

The Prince lay in the centre of his bed, still dressed in the armour of the night before. Her eyes fell to the dent at his heart before hurriedly looking away. His hair was mottled and dark from the mud of the battle, blood tried into to create solid clumps. His skin was waxen and white, lips blue and eyes closed. It was surreal to be so close to him but to stand in silence. No jokes. No loud proclamations. No boasts. Suddenly she hated herself for having resented that he did all those things before. What would she give to hear him deliver a single insult against his cousin?

Said cousin stood next to the bed, looking tired and worn as he gazed down at the Prince, her presence not enough to break him from the solemn stare. Even when she moved beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder, still he did not acknowledge her presence.

"Éomer?" The name was gentle, the squeeze on his shoulder an attempt to reach him.

Still he stared.

The silence stretched.

"Why?" Éomer looked up to her at last, the lines heavy long his face, "Of all people, why him?"

"I don't know."

"He was so sure this would be our victory," The marshal seemed to be speaking to himself as much as anyone. Nemireth glanced at Éowyn standing with her and saw no less pain in her features, "I was delayed, gathering the muster. Had I been sooner-"

"You _can't_ think like that, Éomer," His sister took his hand and held it fiercely, "You did all you could. Both of you."

Nemireth licked her lips, "Grimbold…Grimbold tells me that there was treachery. That Théodred was the orc target all along."

Éowyn brought a hand to her mouth, but Éomer's expression grew darker, "Of course. Why else would they wait until Théodred was there? Why keep the Uruk Hai until his guard was thinned?"

"I don't understand," Fresh tears gathered at the corners of Éowyn's red eyes and it was all Nemireth could do to embrace her, holding that golden crown to her shoulder, "Who would betray us?"

"I don't know," Éomer stood so suddenly that his chair tipped to the ground with a sharp thud, "But I know where to find out." He stormed away, leading Nemireth and Éowyn to stand vigil over the stricken Théodred.

* * *

 **AN: Hey guys, sorry for the delay in updating this story, life has been super busy recently! Big thanks to everyone who reviewed, followed and fav'ed the story! You guys are great!**


	21. Chapter 20: Banishment

Nemireth stayed with Théodred and Éowyn throughout the night.

She fell asleep at some point, when darkness had fallen upon the city and did not awake until the next day. Still Théodred had not moved, eyes closed and breathing shallow. In that time, the only people who had visited them were elder matrons who changed his bandages and washed the wound in silence before departing. Both when she slept and when she woke, Éowyn was with her cousin, sitting at his bedside and watching him, refusing to leave or to get some rest herself. Food was brought for her and only her but she ate little, little nibbles here and there with the rest left for Nemireth for whom no meals were brought.

She knew she should have returned to her barracks, to check on the men who had fought to rescue her and then ridden back to the capital under the banner of her father. Xiphos would be wondering where she'd gone, even if she had sent a messenger to pass on news of the young prince of Rohan. Any time she went to go her eyes fell upon Éowyn, shoulders dropped and hand placed upon that of Théodred and she could not bring herself to leave her alone. Not at a time like this.

So she stayed, the blood of the battle drying to a crust into her tunic, the dirt coarse and unpleasant against her skin. The Princess felt disgusting but knew it was not the time to say as much.

"Could I have helped?" The question was whispered, so faintly that Nemireth wasn't sure that she'd heard it correctly. Éowyn was watching her, eyes searching her face for an answer. When none was forthcoming, she pressed on, "If I'd been there, could I have helped him?"

Nemireth remembered the look in her face as they had gone, the desire to join them, the fear not of battle but staying behind. The fear of the worse happening when she was so far away. The Princess recalled watching Théodred cut down, swarmed by Uruk Hai, unable to reach him.

She shook her head.

"He always talks about the battles he's fought. The near misses he'd had. I don't know if he was trying to scare me or if he thought it made him sound braver," Éowyn had turned back to her cousin, "But I always wondered…what would it be like to be beside him…could I have protected him? Would I have needed protecting myself…"

"Éowyn," Nemireth stood and walked over to the Lady, placing a hand on her shoulder, "You can't torment yourself like this."

"It's just…hard…" A ragged breath, "Nemireth I don't know what I'm going to do if he-" Her words were choked and the Princess took her up in a hug, the Rohirrim going limp in her grip as they stayed like for countless minutes.

"You've got Éomer," She said at last when they parted, "Together you'll get through this. For Rohan. For each other."

A sniffle and a nod, Éowyn straightening her shoulders. Even now, at her lowest ebb, she looked as natural a leader as any Nemireth had ever seen, "For each other."

A heavy knock on the door.

Nemireth turned in surprise. The wound-cleaners never knocked and surely Éomer would never have done so? With a quick glance to Éowyn to make sure it was okay, she approached and opened the door from their side. Standing on the other side, still with the ugly welt on his cheek but cleaner, was Xiphos. There was an ugly look on his face, as if he were close to hitting something.

"Xiphos?" She stiffened guiltily at his look, "What's the matter?"

"You've not heard then." He glanced to Éowyn, expression softening only briefly before turning back to his commander. This was not the anger of that night when she had escaped Wormtongue's clutches. This was something else. This was the cold fury of the battlefield, rage tempered by a lifetime of discipline and training. This was infinitely more dangerous. "Éomer has been banished. He's taken most of the city garrison and ridden from the city."

"What?" The question came from Éowyn.

"I don't understand it myself, My Lady," Xiphos bowed his head awkwardly, tone changing, "I can find no answers."

"Wormtongue," Éowyn's eyes narrowed, "Wormtongue will know. This was by his hand, I would swear upon the ancestors." She stepped away from the bed.

"Wait," Nemireth exhaled, mind racing, "I'll go. You stay with Théodred. Xiphos, stay here."

He looked conflicted, glancing between the two women, the indecision clear, "Your Highness-"

"-I'll be alright," A curt nod, "Look after the Prince."

An exhale and a nod of agreement. He all but swapped places with her, the heavy footsteps of the Princess filling the halls as she made for where she knew the King's most loyal advisor would be.

* * *

His son may have been dying in the rooms of his very hall. His kingdom may have been all but defenceless but still Théoden King sat immobile in his throne. Beside him, like an attack dog on the leash, was the slimy haired wretch of a man who somehow held more esteem in his king's eyes than his own flesh and blood.

"Ah, Princess Nemireth," He spoke before she could, "Dire news indeed from the north. I wish that you had taken heed of my wisdom, else this tragic chain of events could have been halted."

Her anger was instantly tempered by disbelief. Did he truly believe that it was down to her failure to listen to his pathetic advice? How could she be at fault? She had warned Théodred and he had not considered it wise. She had told him everything, hadn't she?

The Princess took herself from such grim thoughts, "Éomer's been banished."

"Another tragic consequence of the battle," Wormtongue bowed his head, as if he were in some way saddened, "Alas, the King's nephew had some strong opinions on the matter. He made some treasonous remarks."

Now it all made sense, the pieces falling into place, "He blamed you."

"Guilt is a cruel and unforgiving burden, Princess. It can cause one to lash out at shadows which do not exist. Even though he was most violent, I did what I could for the marshal. The alternative was death. A most lenient sentence, I think you will agree."

"Lenient?" She could barely get the word out, "Wormtongue, Rohan's heir lies dy-" She stopped herself with only a glance at Théoden. Those old grey eyes had not so much as flickered. She may as well have been talking about the dirt on her boot, "Rohan's heir is gravely ill. The northern borders are defenceless and you have just banished one of the only people capable of organising a defence!"

"Then it shall be your burden, Princess Nemireth."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You are a marshal of Rohan, are you not?" A smile crossed his lips but it was not pleasant to look upon, "The most senior commander left in the capital. Our lives now rest in your hands."

The seconds dragged out and Nemireth could find no way to answer him. What he said was true, but so impossible that she could grasp how she could even reply. She knew so little of Rohan, so little of its people! How was she supposed to defend a kingdom when she'd seen a grand total of one road?

"I…I can't…"

"Did not you stand in this very hall not ten days ago and tell me you were ready to help however you could?"

"Well yes, but-"

"-and have you not been granted the highest military rank the kingdom of Rohan can bestow, by the heir to the throne, no less?"

"I was never-"

"-So what has changed? Have you decided that the price of aid is too great? Do you fear that Rohan will not live up to your lofty expectations?"

"That's not fair!"

"It is not fair that you are expected to perform the duties of your station, Princess?" A deep breath from the man and a shake of the head. Disapproval. From Wormtongue. Nemireth's stomach fell through the floor and with it, the fire of her argument. When there was no retaliation coming, the Advisor nodded, "The King expects a report twice daily of events beyond the capital. You must deliver it in person, sending a messenger is disrespectful to the authority of the king. The defence of the realm is in your hands, Princess Nemireth," He bowed, "I wish you well."

Stunned, she left the hall. What was Éowyn going to say? What was Xiphos going to say? How had she gone to protest at Éomer's banishment and ended up in charge of all Rohan's defence? What was she going to do?

* * *

Nemireth felt like she was drowning.

Two days she had been in charge of Rohan's military. Two days of no sleep and barely any food. It felt like she was running on scraps and yet she kept going, because she could not think of what else to do. When was she supposed to get sleep? Reports came in at all hours of the day and night, mentioning places she had never heard of and lords who she had never seen under attack from orcs. Each report took an embarrassing amount of time to locate on the map even with Gamling or Hama's help and when they did, each ended up telling her exactly the same thing.

The orcs had control of Rohan.

With so many men gone, she could do little to stop them. Patrols protected the towns and routes closest to the capital and she tried to safeguard as many people as she could but there were too many villages, too many hamlets, too many roads in all directions. Was this how Théodred had seen it? Endless tales of bad news and death from beyond his capital? Had he done the same as she, plugging as many leaks in the sinking ship as she could and kept that same cheerful demeanor? Was Isen the final, desperate throw of the dice before his country was overwhelmed?

She did not even have that option.

And twice a day she had tramp up those steps to stand in a grey hall and admit her failure to a disinterested king and the teeth-gnashing smugness of his advisor from whom military advice flowed as freely as water from a spring. Oftentimes he would enact them of his own accord, commands taken out behind her back, reassigning men and resources she desperately needed on some unimportant or wasteful mission. No matter how many times she tried to protest, he shut her down with ruthless efficiency, like a grown man debating with a child.

This morning was just another one of those times. She stood before him in her armour, praying to the Wind Father and Valar alike that with each closing of heavy eyelids, she would not fall asleep in the presence of the king. The paper she studied may as well have been written in ancient dwarven, the words jumping out the page like playful sprites, tormenting and frustrating her. She understood the meaning of each but piecing them together was taking her an embarrassingly long time.

"Well?" Wormtongue clucked his tongue, "Westron is the written language in your kingdom, is it not?"

Westron, Sindarin, Numenorean. She knew how to read them all but she bit her tongue, "I don't understand what you want."

"You are sending too many men to escort the peasants coming to Edoras. It is leaving the holds of the furthest lords exposed."

"The furthest lords have walls and towers to defend their keeps, the people on the roads have no one." She bit back.

"And what of the main road to Isen? You leave that with just a small number of men to guard it."

The main road. A meaningless stretch of cobbles and grass that went to the one place she hoped never to visit again, "It's very exposed."

"Are you proposing we abandon it?"

"I can't see how we can defend it."

"What of the men who stand watch over the Isen? What if they require reinforcement? Supply? Retreat? You propose to abandon them to the enemy in the north?"

"I don't mean that at all," She snapped. He was putting words in her mouth. He always did.

"So you will defend it?"

"With what? There's no one as it is."

"Send some of your men. I've noticed most of them have remained in the capital."

That was true but Xiphos' company was already depleted and exhausted. They also formed the bulk of the patrols closest to Edoras, freeing up Rohan's riders for excursions further afield in lands they knew. "My men are needed here."

"So you will have the Rohirrim ride out to the most dangerous places but not your own? Are the sacrifice and lives of our warriors valued so poorly by you?"

"They are needed to patrol near the capital, you sn-" She stopped herself with a breath, "My lord."

"Then send as many as you can spare. Do your men wish to play their part?"

"They do," What else could she say? Frustration welled up inside her. There had to be something she could say, something to outwit him but the man simply nodded.

"Very well then. You may carry on your assignments."

She stood her ground.

"Is there a problem?" He raised an eyebrow.

"You cannot dismiss me like some kitchen-maid," The words sounded petulant even to her yet still they poured forth, days of little sleep and even less food having worn away at whatever patience she still possessed, "I am the Princess of Aeanor."

"In Aeanor, this may be the case." He drew his tongue along his cracked lips, "But here, you are a marshal of Rohan and thus can be dismissed in a manner I see befitting. Do the duties with which you have been entrusted matter less to you than protocol?"

"Well…no, of course not."

"Then you will see to them as soon as possible." He turned away and she was left in the middle of the hall, feeling so much more foolish for having opened her mouth. So, dismissed like a common maid, she went. It was done via quick visit to Théodred's room where the Prince remained in as dire a state as ever. Still Éowyn had not left his side but whenever the Princess offered to stay, the Lady would simply shake her head, smile and tell her that she was doing what Théodred would have wanted her to do.

She very much doubted that. Not unless watching his kingdom sink without a trace was what Théodred had wanted for her.

And so the days passed. More reports. More defeats. More enemies. A band ransacking the villages north of the Isen unchecked, a convoy of grain attacked on its way to Edoras but fought off despite Wormtongue diverting half the escort, a large column from the direction of somewhere called 'Amon Hen' heading for Isengard. That last one she was willing to let be. Let them run to Saruman, better that than attacking some defenceless settlement in the north.

And still the city filled with refugees from all corners of the kingdom. Despite all her personal woes, still Éowyn found space for them to sleep and food for them to eat. It was getting to the point that Nemireth was half-convinced she was some sort of sorceress conjuring food from fresh air.

It was one such group she watched pour through the gates of the city, escorted by a mixture of Kings Guard and Rohirrim, men who slumped in their saddles whether they were wounded or not. Amongst the terrified and dirtied peasants, there were soft cries of babes silenced for a great deal of the trip, relieved murmuring, the occasional cry of delight as separated relations found one another. One such reconciliation happened before her, an elderly farmer embracing a younger women and even smaller children. Their joyful tears could not help but bring a smile to her face. A small victory. That was what Théodred would have called it. Inconsequential but a victory all the same. Right now, she would cling to any thread of hope she could find.

Xiphos was watching the same scene as she, his hair billowing in the wind as he rested his hand on the blade of his sword with the same casual ease as ever. The King's Guard numbers were being worn down, just as those of the Rohirrim were, but still he hummed merrily.

 _"Oh, the lady glanced down the road,_

 _And what should she chance to see?_

 _A man with plate and spear in hand,_

 _Oh, a soldier just for me._

 _So did the soldier say to her,_

 _Hide me from this strife._

 _And the lady replied so sure,_

 _For a crown, I'll be your wife._

 _For none were too fat,_

 _For none were too small,_

 _For none were too weak,_

 _For the keep of the Lady Rall."_

"Must you sing that now?" She shot him an exasperated look.

"I am in a good mood," He replied in the same sing-song, "I can think of no better time to sing than that."

"Well don't be, it's grating."

"A grating mood, if you will."

She punched him on the arm which brought a hearty laugh from her Captain, "Why are you so cheerful anyway? Things have never been worse."

"Ah Princess, that's when we need to be at our most cheerful. There's an old Ellayan saying; 'the man who smiles may find delight, but the frowning man be out of sight.'"

"Maybe Théoden's following the old Ellayan ways." She huffed as a column of Rohirrim trotted up, heading out on patrol. To her surprise, they inclined their heads and dipped their spears as they passed her, "That's new…"

"They've heard of your good deeds."

"What good deeds are these now?"

"These people," He gestured to the now dispersing arrivals, "Only made it this far because you doubled the escort."

"Well," She shrugged, not sure how else she would supposed to respond to that, "They needed help and we had the men here. It only made sense. Anyone would have done it."

"Not Wormtongue. These people know that. Every man, woman and child that makes it through those gates does so because of your actions."

"And what of their farms and those they left behind? Are their losses because of my actions also?"

The Captain exhaled, "Your Majesty, one day you will allow yourself to be cheered up and when it happens, I will be there with paints and easel to capture it forever."

"I didn't know you could paint, Xiphos," She folded her arms.

"Well," A careless shrug from the Officer, "It won't be a particularly skilled capture. I hope you don't mind being drawn as a stick, though with that armour on." He sucked in breath between his teeth.

That was it. She grabbed the first thing she could find and tossed it at him, which happened to be a handful of straw from a nearby bale. The man took the hint and retreated with a great deal more laughter.

No sooner had he gone than another figure took his place, a morose man she recognised as one of Wormtongue's people. He was breathing heavily. All of Xiphos' good work vanished immediately, "My lady!" He bowed his head, "His Lord Gríma requests your presence for an urgent matter!"

"Can't it wait?" She was not long out of her morning meeting and had no desire to look upon him again until evening.

"It is of the upmost importance!"

"So is everything I've got to do down here-"

"-Prince Théodred has passed! The King wis-"

He got no further. Nemireth had shoved past him so fiercely that he all but leapt out of her way, the woman running up the hill to the Golden Hall with all the speed her tired legs would carry her.

In the hall was the most wretched sight. Éowyn stood in front of the king, her shoulders limp and her head bowed. As the Princess approached, the Lady turned to show how red her eyes were, the silvery trails down her cheeks betraying her tears. It was as if the life had been drawn from her, sucked out by the evilness of this place, by the wizened old man who had not moved from his throne in all her time here, by the vile man who stood at his side with his head bowed.

Nemireth said nothing but took Éowyn in her arms and held her. The woman buried her head in the Aeanoran's chest and she felt silent sobs wrack her body. Tears stung at the corner of Nemireth's eyes, blurring her vision as she felt a great weight settle on her. He was gone. The pain of grief tore at her like the sharpest of knifes, the wound of Gandalf's passing opening at the loss of a friend, even if she had not counted him as one when she should.

Wormtongue cleared his throat, voice sombre, "You have heard the news then, my lady."

"Obviously," She snarled the word, baring teeth like a wolf protecting her one of her pack from harm.

"Prince Théodred was a great man," He continued as if she had not spoken, "A true servant of Rohan and friend to us all. The world is already the darker for his passing." A theatrical sigh, "But the cogs of state must turn and I must impose upon you a duty as marshal."

"Have you no heart, you snake?" Nemireth held Éowyn tighter still, "Does a lump of coal beat in your chest?"

"The enemy moves, Princess Nemireth," His voice rose in volume, "And we must move with them if we are to ensure Rohan's security. A great force was seen along our western border, riding north towards Isen."

"So? Let them go," She snapped, every one filled with the loathing she no longer cared to hide for this man, "Good riddance to them."

"If they escape the borders of this realm, they will be a threat too terrible to ignore. You must gather every man you can and challenge them. You must defeat and kill them to a man."

"I will not ride into the hinterlands looking for some blasted orcs!"

"I do not refer to orcs!" He shouted over her. "The traitor Éomer and his army gather! They await their chance to strike at the capital! You must see he cannot do this!"

Nemireth was struck dumb. In her grasp, Éowyn froze as solidly as the mountain of Caradhras. "Wormtongue…Gríma…you can't be serious."

"When it comes to the safety of my liege, I am always serious." He took a step down towards the pair, "Éomer has been banished for crimes against the king. He has gathered many riders and roams the countryside like a common bandit. He turns north to gather yet more support. As a marshal of the mark you must stop him!"

"I won't ride against him!"

"The King commands it!"

"I don't give a damn about your king!" Her voice bounced off the walls and raced back to her. What followed was a torturously long quiet as her words faded to nothing. No one moved. No one except Wormtongue, whom she could see the corners of his mouth just beginning to twitch.

"You are in league with Éomer." He said.

"I am in league with whichever one of you fools claims to be protecting this Valar-forsaken scrap of land!" It all came forth. Weeks of pain, of exhaustion and fear, guilt and grief. It flowed from her as water from a dam and she could do nothing to stop it, "It's clearly not that antique of a king! It's clearly not your slimy, poisonous, worthless self!"

Wormtongue drew himself up to his full height. It was only when he did so that she realised how much he was bent over, "Princess Nemireth. By the powers invested in me by Théoden King, I hereby banish you from the realm of Rohan. Neither you, nor your heirs, nor your kin may step unto our lands until the end of days. Aeanor shall be a black word, cursed and derided. Your actions here, your deeds shall be written from our memory as we wash filth from a step. Go. Now. Take all the ill-omens of your kind with you and never darken this hall again."

She felt Éowyn's grip slacken but it could have been her own for she was paralysed as Wormtongue turned again. The anger of mere seconds ago disappeared and something so much worse took its place, thick and bubbling in her stomach. Her mind was empty. No words would come to her. No thoughts but one.

 _What have I done?_

She wanted to apologise but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out. She looked into the lifeless eyes of the king, hoping he would intervene, now of all times. He did not. She did not look at Éowyn, she could not bear to look into those eyes and see the pain. To know how much she had caused.

Turning, she walked from the hall. Every step was like that of a giant, ringing out as if to announce her shame as loudly as possible, to remind her of the words she had spoken in such pure hatred.

Why? Why had she done it? Why now?

The doors opened and there was the now familiar face of Hama. His expression was still but she thought she saw maybe some hint of regret there. Had he heard? He must have done. Surely even the Valar had heard.

Stupid, stupid girl.

"Nemireth!"

That sweet voice cut her like a sabre but she turned to see Éowyn scrambling after her, sickly pale with hair tangled and unkempt. How she wanted to brush it but then the guilt hit like a punch to the stomach.

The Lady of Rohan stopped just short of her, searching her eyes, voice weak yet heavy, "Please don't go."

"I'm sorry." Her own was heavy. There was more she wanted to say but it jumbled up in her mind.

"Please. We need you." Éowyn's voice cracked.

"Éowyn," Nemireth took her hand, "Gather as many people as you can and go. Head west, to the elves. To the sea. You can come to Aeanor. We'll protect you."

"W-what?" That one word. It tore at her soul worse than every one of Wormtongue's combined. The uncertainty. The betrayal.

"Rohan can't be saved," Why was she still talking? The words were coming forth again. Unbidden and unwelcome, "Take who you can and go. You can carry on. A new country."

Éowyn pulled her hand away so sharply that the nail caught Nemireth's finger, drawing blood. The tears vanished instantly, mouth set in a hard line. She had never seen her like this, "I will _not_ abandon my people."

She stormed off, leaving Nemireth with just the winds as they swept about her. They stung at her eyes and left frigid trails down her cheeks as she turned and headed for the barracks.

Xiphos did not ask why they were leaving. One look at his Princess was enough. With that bustling military manner, he quickly had the King's Guard gathered. They had no food save for some grains but that would do. They could live off the land until they reached the west. Where they went beyond that, she did not care. She had failed.

Súletal nudged at her with a gentle snort and she patted him. At least she hadn't burned her bridges with him. The only one in Middle Earth who hadn't. Why had she thought she could do this? Why had she ever listened to Gandalf's stories? Why had she sailed across the sea?

King Echer. King Ferion. King Erioron. Princess Nemireth.

Fools.

Failures.

She mounted the elven horse with ease, allowing herself one last look at the Golden Hall, the last of her kin to look upon it. The Princess made to wipe her tears away but found new ones took their place immediately. All there was left to do was leave.

A horn blew from the gate.

A cry from above.

"The White Rider! The White Rider approaches! Saruman comes!"


	22. Chapter 21 Reunited

"To arms! To arms!" Nemireth ran through the city, blade clenched firmly in her hand as men poured from their barracks, bleary-eyed and confused, "To the walls! Hurry!"

All around her, the people of Edoras fled up the hill towards the Golden Hall, children hugging close to their mothers, cries of fear and panic filling the streets. The Princess had no time to see to them, for the time had come at last. Saruman was done with his games, with the erosion of Rohan's power and he was now here. To claim ownership? To declare victory? Perhaps to use his magics to tear down the wall and remove the final defence of a once mighty kingdom? No matter his aim, he would not find Edoras cowering upon his arrival.

The men she sent to the wall were a mixture of Rohirrim and Aeanorean, no time for fancy battle-lines and drills here. Spears and shields on the walls, that was what she needed, along with as many archers as the city had to offer.

"Your Highness?" Xiphos stood beside her, without his helmet or shield.

"As soon as he's in range, the archers can loose at will," She did not look at him, half striding, half-jogging for the stables, "Spears thrown once he closes."

"I'm not sure how effectively we can fight a wizard," The Aeanorean frowned.

"Well, we have to try," Nemireth shot him an exasperated look, "No one else is going to."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to meet him."

Xiphos grabbed her by the wrist, stopping her dead in her tracks, "You can't!"

She tried to pull her arm away but his grip was like a vice as he searched her face and she found she could not meet his gaze, "I need you here to command the men. They'll listen to you, Rohan and Aeanor both. If I can talk…maybe I can distract him long enough to let some escape."

"I won't let you face him alone!"

No longer did she try to pull against him but instead stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. The motion caught him by surprise and he let go of her arm, "I am servant of the Blue City," She smiled forlornly, "I will do my duty. Today, tomorrow, unto the ending of the world."

Xiphos exhaled sharply, somewhere between a sigh and snarl but as they parted, he nodded, "I'm coming with you."

"I need-"

"If we are facing the end, then I'll do it by your side, Princess. There's nowhere I'd rather be."

A feeling of intense warmth swelled within for her captain but she could find no way to express it other than to nod. She must have been smiling for even now, when times were as dark as they had ever been, there was a brightness to the smile she received in turn.

The pair were soon riding forth, beyond the gates that were now bustling with men and spears and towards the Wizard who galloped forward. The Princess tried to think of what she would say even as Súletal carried her forwards. How did one greet a wizard? If her goal was to keep him talking as long as possible then she would need to flatter him. If she had paid more attention while in court at home then maybe this would have come more naturally.

As for Saruman himself, the Princess half expected him to be at the head of some monstrous force, an army of demons and balrogs, or perhaps even dragons. Did Saruman even have dragons? Instead he galloped towards the city on a white horse with two others in tow. Escorts? Did the Lord of Isengard truly need a pair of riders to accompany him? They did not look like orcs either, being too tall and fair for that even from such a distance, one being particularly bulky. It was only as they drew closer that she saw it was not one misshapen being but two sharing a short; one tall and blonde, the other rusty-coloured and…short? The second horse was ridden by a dark haired man dressed in the armour of the northern rangers?

It couldn't be.

It had to be a trick.

A spell of Saruman had fallen on her. There was no other way she could be seeing the sight before her. Now they were so close that she could see the blue eyes of the blonde man, who she could see was an elf.

She yanked back on the reins, causing Súletal to dig his hooves into the mud and come to a jolting stop with a whinny of protest. Xiphos went on another half step before curbing his own mount and falling into place beside her. Before them, the trio of horses slowed, the magnificent white charger ridden by the wizard and the other two, mundane and plain in comparison. Their riders, unkempt and worn-looking, were looking her up and down as if an apparition had appeared before them, an expression she knew she mirrored.

"Nemireth?" Legolas asked, his voice faint.

"Well, well," Gimli huffed from behind him, "This is a time of reunions indeed!"

"Reunions?" She knew her jaw was hanging open as she looked over the dwarf. His beard was as mottled as ever while he shuffled and grumbled under his breath, holding on to Legolas for grim death. If it was an illusion, it was a very good one, "What are you doing here?"

"A question for another time, Princess," The Wizard spoke, but the voice hit her with the force of a great axe. It was not the voice of Saruman, impatient but deep and rumbling, a voice that sent a tingle through her as she held on to Súletal to keep herself tumbling from the horse.

"Gandalf?"

He bowed his head, no longer grey but the blinding shade of white she had seen from so far away, even the lines seemed to have faded from his features, beard soft and bright. She was fixed on his eyes though, for they were kindly but tired, warm but alert. It was a look she had never forgotten.

"I don't understand…"

"Nor do you yet need to. There will be time for questions, but it is not now."

"Nemireth, we must speak with King Théoden," Aragorn urged from beside the Wizard. He had been cut above the eye, the bruise there still clear but he was the same man she had seen depart from the shores of Caras Galadhon…how long had that been? It felt like years.

"Théoden?" Her expression hardened at the mere mention of the king, "The stones at your feet would make better company. You'll find no help here."

Gandalf snorted under his breath, "You presume we request such, rather than come to deliver it."

"Deliver it? Gandalf, Rohan is beyond all help. The kingdom has already fallen. There's nothing left to be done here," She hated the words she spoke but they spilled from her lips before she could stop herself. The expressions of her companions betrayed their thoughts; Gimli frowning, Aragorn raising an eyebrow and Legolas just fixing her with a curious stare, "The best we can do is retreat and regroup with-"

Gandalf clucked his tongue impatiently, interrupting her, "The best we can do is see that Rohan stands."

"It cannot stand! There is nothing left to defend," Her anger was rising now. Gandalf had no idea what it was like here, what state the King was in, how little they had to work with. Yet he ignored her, just as he had done upon her arrival in Middle Earth. Well, she was not some child anymore so spoke out of naivety, "Not unless you plan on pulling some magic army out of your behind!"

Gandalf inhaled sharply but he had the silence linger. In that silence, Nemireth's anger turned quickly to shame. The looks of the others were not helping the colour that came quickly to her cheeks.

"We shall see what tricks I still have," The Wizard spoke almost to himself, low and contemplative, "I will speak with Théoden King. Either you can accompany us, Princess, or you may ride away."

"The Aeanoreans have been banished, Gandalf," Xiphos chimed in, tone sharp but respectful, "We are no longer welcome in Rohan."

"Yet, you will still have a role to play, if only you will accept your part. You may ride away, and wonder until the end of your days what could have been, or you can stay, and Rohan may yet see this through to the end."

The Princess bit her lip and closed her eyes. The options tore at one another as fiercely as any battlefield. She had stayed once before when the option to leave had been there. She had said she would live with the consequences of that choice. The consequences had been death, defeat, banishment, broken friendships and unfulfilled promises. She could feel Xiphos' gaze from behind, the fellowship's eyes in front. Trapped with nowhere to run and a decision to be made.

She nodded.

"Very good." Gandalf kicked on, trotting past her and leaving her no choice but to fall in line behind him, amongst the others she had spent months travelling with whom felt like strangers after so long apart. How much she wanted to speak with him, but instead there was only a stony silence.

Xiphos rode ahead and by his word, the gates were opened, the party greeted by sullen looks and suspicious soldiers rather than the hail of arrow-fire that would otherwise have come their way.

"You'd find more cheer in a graveyard," Gimli huffed under his breath to which Nemireth only gave him a hard stare.

So they dismounted and were soon climbing the steps to the Golden Hall, a place so undeservedly named that it stung to even think its name anymore. Éowyn was no longer standing there, but then why would she have? She had made it clear as day what she thought of Nemireth's advice. Better to stay and sink with the ship than to flee when she had the chance. So be it, if that was her choice. In hindsight, she wondered why she had ever thought the lady of Rohan would listen to her. No one else had.

Hama, the ever loyal gatekeeper to the hall of the king was there to greet them with his men standing watch over the door. His eyes flicked to each of the newcomers one after another, but lingered on her in particular before finally turning to Gandalf at the head of the party.  
"I cannot allow you before Théoden King so heavily armed Gandalf…Greyhelm," He shrugged apologetically and, at a nod from the wizard; Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli began to divest themselves of their many, many weapons.

Nemireth stood a little off to the side, watching as Legolas handed over his bow and blades with some reluctance, how Gimli gave up his axe as a father would part with his cherished daughter and even Aragorn frowned as he passed over his arms. Gandalf alone seemed contended to hand over his long sword, placing it in the hands of Hama, though an attempt to take his staff was rebuffed. What his goal was, she could only guess. Éomer had been unable to speak sense into him, Éowyn's pleas had fallen on deaf ears and even the council of his own son had been for nothing. It would repeat as it had before, no matter what evidence Gandalf presented. That was even before they had to deal with Wormtongue, whose very name had her clenching her teeth.

It was only then she noticed the assembled party watching her.

"Well?" Gandalf huffed, "You plan on facing the king with blade at your side?"

She was about to protest, as was Hama by the looks of things but in the end she gave a petulant eye-roll and unclipped her belt, handing it to the Rohirrim officer without even meeting his gaze.

"My good man," Gandalf was still leaning against his staff, "You are loyal to your king, yes?"

"Of course," Hama bristled at the mere question.

"Then, let it be known that upon hearing a signal from the Princess here," He gestured to the whistle which hung from Nemireth's neck, "Your king is in mortal peril. I would very much appreciate your presence in the hall at this time. You too, Captain," He turned to Xiphos, "With as many men as you can gather."

Xiphos glanced from the wizard to Nemireth, searching her face for an order and receiving only a shrug. His own expression darkened and he bowed as he departed, taking the steps two at a time.

"Now then, let us meet the great king of Rohan."

Beyond the doors was just as she had left it; cold and dark, abandoned and unloved. At the end sat Théoden in all the glory she had come to expected, as lively as a tree in the depths of winter and as alert as a stone at the bottom of the Great Sea. Beside him was the detestable slug in Wormtongue, the same man who had shown such glee in banishing her, whispering urgently into his liege' ears. Even now his words rang about her ears, making her shiver in dread. Had she gone until the end of the earth, it would have been too soon a time to be in his presence again. To his other side sat Éowyn and the Princess longed to meet her gaze but the Rohirrim was fixed solely on Gandalf, hand gently stroking that of her uncle.

"The courtesy of your hall has lessened somewhat of late, Théoden _King_ ," Gandalf ambled forward, leaning on his staff and Legolas for support, murmuring the words. Had the ride taken his strength? Where had he ridden from? Why was he here at all? Out of the corner of her eye, she could see shadows moving at the sides of the room. Wormtongue's cronies, far more than she had seen before. The door slammed behind them with a heavy thud.

"Watch your left, lass," Gimli murmured to her, where a gang seemed to following them the length of the hall. Her instinct was to go for a sword that wasn't there.

"Why…" Théoden spoke, the noise taking her by surprise. He could speak? Even that sounded wheezing and pathetic, weak and thin like the king himself, "Should I welcome you, Gandalf…Stormcrow?"

"A just question, my king," Wormtongue reared up proudly, "Late is the hour that this conjurer choses to appear. Lathspell, I name him, ill news is an ill guest!" He looked so proud of himself, so sure of his victory. How often had she seen that look? That assurance. How often had she failed to think of a single counter to his sneering words.

"Be silent!" No longer did Gandalf murmur. No longer did he lean on Legolas but now stood as tall as could be, suddenly dwarfing the man, "Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth! I have not passed through fire and death to bandy words with a witless worm!" He drew his staff.

"No!" For the first time, she saw those sneering eyes widen. For the first time the smirk that Wormtongue had worn as surely as a soldier wore a breastplate was gone. He fell back as if the mere presence of the walking stick repelled him, "I told you to take the wizard's staff!"

Those who had been waiting on the sidelines now lunged forward and suddenly Nemireth was in the midst of a melee. She punched the first man who came at her, his blow striking her armour before Legolas appeared to catch a second who had appeared from nowhere. All around, the fellowship battled but Gandalf advanced on the king without pause. One of the goons went for him but Nemireth leapt on his back and dragged him down just short of the wizard, helped to her feet by the elf. Twisting about in search for her next opponent, a blow caught her on the cheek and sent her crashing to the stone with a yelp, tasting blood. She could barely see through the tangle of legs as Gandalf held his staff, forced to look away as he threw off his cloak to reveal the radiant white robes beneath. The king let out a howl of pain over which she could barely hear the faint hiss of blades being drawn.

"Nemireth!" Aragorn called from where he held a man in a headlock, "Blow the whistle!"

Feeling a little lightheaded, as if the floor was slightly sideways, the Princess brought the wooden whistle to her lips and blew a single, loud shriek.

From behind came the crashing of doors being thrown open, the trample of heavy boots and before she knew it she was being lifted to her feet.

"Are you hurt?" Legolas searched her eyes and she looked back, head cocked, gaze unfocused. He had the most wonderful eyes.

"I don't think so." She managed to mutter, looking about to see that the hall was now filled with round green and oval blue shields, spears lowered as Wormtongue's men hurried dropped their weapons to the ground.

At the throne, Éowyn held on to Théoden for grim life, all eyes watching as he sat slumped. What had happened? Had Gandalf done something? Attacked him? Surely not, else the guards would not been so passive. Then Théoden did something so astonishing that she let out a gasp.

He stood.

No longer was he weathered and grey but vibrant and alive. His hair and beard no longer straggly and thin but rich and blonde in colour. His eyes were no longer hollow and gaunt but alert and deep blue. He looked around the assembled soldiers, courtiers, thugs and guests as if he had never seen them before.

"Breath the free air again, my friend," Gandalf sighed tiredly.

"Dark have been my dreams of late," Théoden seemed almost dazed, holding to Éowyn now as surely as she held him, a broad smile upon her fair features. He looked upon his hand as if unsure if unsure it was his.

"Your fingers would remember their old strength better if they clasped your sword." The Wizard offered and in moments, Gamling appeared with a scabbard, bowing before the throne as Théoden grasped the blade firmly and drew it forth, gazing upon it in near wonder.

Nearby, Wormtongue whimpered, held firmly under Gimli's boot.

Théoden King had returned.


	23. Chapter 22: Legolas

Legolas would have been lying if he had said this was the path he had thought his life would take.

Once upon a time, he had known the path along which he would travel, mapped out before him as clearly as the world upon paper. As the son and heir to the King of the Woodland Realm, everything had been clear and without question in his mind. A lifetime of learning and training in preparation for the day that he would ascend the throne, the king of the Greenwood, the last elven king. Statehood, diplomacy and strategy, these were the watchwords of his youth, of his life. The realm was what mattered above all else, the preservation of her ideals and her history. People came and went, regimes rose and fell but the ideals of the Woodland Realm would endure until the end of days, the final spark of the great elven kings who had once ruled Middle Earth.

Then she had come into his life. Then everything came crashing down.

In the bloody aftermath, Legolas looked about and found that his future lay shattered about his boots. The path which he had become so intimately familiar was now shrouded in fog, the map torn up before his eyes. There was no clear way forward anymore, the throne which would have been his, the burden he had been preparing to shoulder all his life no longer his to take. Suddenly all the noble words of his upbringing, the ideals of the Woodland Realm and the elven kings of yore could not heal the wound that had opened in his soul. The world was coloured a different hue than it had been before; even his home no longer the welcome sight he had once dreamed of. So he did the only thing he could think to do, the only solution in a time of shadow.

He fled.

He retreated to the lawless corners of the world, the place where civilised folk rarely dared to venture and in here, he founded his new kingdom of one. It was a life of constant danger, where menace lurked in every shadow and all manner of vile creatures and beasts prowled the moonless nights in search of the weak and the defenceless. In him, they found neither and for a while, he found precisely what he had craved; simplicity. Out in these barren places, life was black and white, divided into good and evil. The task here was as simple as a task could be, achievable by a common ranger or elven prince, protect the innocent. For a time, the requirements of the service and the reward of every victory kept the darker parts of his mind at bay.

As time passed and victories were tainted with defeats so those thoughts had returned. Like fighting a forest fire with only a bucket, he knew he was only delaying the inevitable and no matter how deeply he buried it, the same question kept returning to him. Why stay? Why not follow her beyond the sea to the Undying Lands? What was keeping him here in a place where he knew nothing but loss and suffering?

The question had become harder and harder to dodge in recent years to the point that he was giving it active consideration. Why not just leave? What was tying him down truly? Each time the thought gained traction though, he would come across another ransacked village, another ambushed caravan and the Undying lands would dissipate. He may have been fighting the fire with only a bucket in hand but by the Valar he would stay with that bucket until the flame consumed him.

Then had come the message from his father, a call to attend a meeting being called by Elrond of Rivendell. This had surprised him on two fronts; first that his father had contacted him at all, for the first time in a long time and the second that this appeared to be a meeting of all the free folk of Middle Earth. Such an undertaking couldn't have been called for lightly, so either Lord Elrond had news worthy of such a stage or he had become desperate. During his journey to the last homely house in the east, he began to suspect it was a mixture of both.

The unveiling of the One Ring was indeed worthy both of council and desperation. No sooner had he seen it than he had began to feel it tug upon him and he knew it must be destroyed. He suspected Elrond had hoped to form a grand alliance as in the old days, all peoples of Middle Earth marching together but within an hour of arriving he had known it to be a forlorn hope. Man's need for power had blinded them to the most obvious truth in the world while the dwarves were simply too stubborn and self-centred to even consider the idea. And so the spark of a second Last Alliance had passed almost as soon as it had been lit, fading into nothingness to be carried away by the wind.

Only one had called for an alliance; the Princess of Aeanor.

It was a name that he recognised if only vaguely. He knew it to be a kingdom across the sea who had fought in the Last Alliance that had first defeated Sauron and now, an age later, here was their Princess who called for a similar force to defeat him again. Poor girl, ignorant of how the world had changed while her kingdom was invisible to the nations of Middle Earth. She had struck him as naïve, arrogant and spoilt.

An heir, in other words.

He had been less than thrilled when she had agreed to join them but on the journey he had found that hard attitude softening. Everything he had thought was proven right; she was childishly unfamiliar with the ways of the world, a stranger to the hardships of the road and quick to pout when things did not meet her expectations. What he had not expected was her compassion and her quickness to comfort those who needed it, not to mention a wit that could be razor sharp when she was annoyed. When they had fought the Watcher before the gates of Moria, he had seen her grabbed and a dread had filled him. He had attempted to help but fumbled the arrow from his quiver, only for Boromir to aid her instead. The relief of her safety was tempered by annoyance, for it had been a long time since he had made such a foolish mistake. Through Moria, and out the other side, he had watched as she became withdrawn and snappish, something that only grew worse when they arrived in Lothlórien.

There the cracks were showing in all the Fellowship, the loss of Gandalf only opening them further. When Nemireth announced her departure from the Fellowship, he had lost control. Perhaps it was the grief of Gandalf's fall, the strain of being near the Ring, the draining fight through the fallen dwarven kingdom or simply that he had not wanted to see her leave, but he had lashed out. Only with a night's rest had the regret crept into his thoughts and he had sought to make it right.

Then she had hugged him.

Unsure how to react, he had half-heartedly returned the strange gesture. Only when they had parted had his regrets welled up again. It was the memory of that hug which dominated his thoughts as they paddled down the Anduin; the soft scent of her hair, the warmth of her arms as she had hugged him, the genuine happiness in her voice as they had parted. The further they had gone, so the easier he found the idea to push out of his mind, though not entirely. He was going into the heartland of evil in Middle Earth, a journey he did not expect to return from.

Once again, the path of his life had been shifted.

The Fellowship had shattered like an untreated sword against stone upon facing the enemy on the river banks. Gimli had put it best, the Fellowship had failed.

But Aragorn had given them purpose, driving them on when things had looked most dire.

So the pursuit of the Uruks who had attacked them began. It had led them through Fangorn Forest, a place he had always longed to see under better circumstances and to the hall of the king of Rohan. Back into the presence of Princess Nemireth.

It was with her that he now sat upon the stone steps before the Golden Hall. Wormtongue had been removed from the city by the hand of the King himself, with only Aragorn's compassion seeing his life spared. Now the King saw to his son with Éomer at his side. Gimli, Gandalf and Aragorn were resting after what had been an exhausting period of time. Legolas had no need for such rest and so he attended to the bruise which had rapidly appeared around the Princess' eye following the brawl in the throne room.

It was made difficult by her hair blowing across her face with the wind, leading him to stop as she tucked it back behind her ear, a gesture he found fascinating. She would not meet his gaze, each time he checked he found those brown eyes downcast or looking up towards the sky. She had taken the news of the Fellowship's fate better than he had expected, but he could see the pain etched across her features as surely as if she were sobbing aloud in his arms.

"Is it bad?" She asked, biting her lip as he rubbed at the spot with as cold a cloth as he could find.

"Dreadful," he tutted and shook his head, "Half your head may drop off at any moment."

He saw her eyes widen and for a split second, he feared she had taken his words literally only for a small smile to dance across her lips, "I'll be sure to get any paintings done in profile."

Legolas chuckled, "And it will still be a marvellous portrait even then."

Her wide eyes met his and quickly Legolas changed topic, glancing away, "Sounds like you've had an adventure in our absence."

"That's one way to put it," That pained expression returned and Legolas mentally berated himself for having spoiled what little frivolity they had enjoyed, "Though not so great as you. Merry and Pippin _are_ alright?"

He nodded, "Gandalf has said they're in good company, and I've yet to find reason not to trust the wizard at his word."

"I still don't understand how he can be here, Legolas. I saw him fall…"

"He's been sent back, until his task is complete," The Elf shrugged, "The ways of the Maiar are a mystery to me and I stopped trying to understand them a long time ago."

She didn't look happy with the answer, nor had he expected her to but it was the best he could manage. Again, her eyes gaze flicked over his shoulder, wincing as he pressed a little harder than he intended upon the wound.

"Legolas," She said at last, "How did Boromir…?" Her question trailed away and his hands dropped.

How could he tell her what Boromir had done? That in a fit of madness he had tried to take The Ring for himself? That he had fought with Aragorn throughout the journey, trying to steer them to Gondor for that purpose?

"He died a warrior's death," He said at last, "Defending Merry and Pippin to his final breath."

A deep exhale left Nemireth's lips and she squeezed her eyes tight as if fighting back tears but when she opened them again, she looked directly at him with a murmured, "Thank you."

Again he found himself lost in her gaze but now it was his turn to look away as the memories from so long ago welled up inside him. A face he had not seen in so long he was sure he had forgotten it, but instead he remembered every detail, from her hazel eyes to her fierce red hair, her fierce scowl and her wonderful smile. He shook his head as he tried to clear that face from his mind but it refused to leave him, even after all this time.

"Are you okay, Legolas?" She placed her hand on his and he withdrew in that moment of weakness.

"I am fine, thank you, Princess."

"Oh. Okay," He could hear the hurt without even seeing it and, thankfully, a messenger arrived from within the hall.

"My lord Elf, Princess Nemireth," While he was greeted with a brief bow, he noticed how deeply the Rohirrim rider lowered his head to the Aeanorean, "We are ready for the procession."

All the city seemed to have lined the path down which the body of the deceased Prince travelled. The air was quiet and the mood solemn and as he passed, they tossed flowers upon the road in bundles and loose petals alike. He was held aloft by six of his own men, dressed in shining armour of the Rohirrim, himself attired in the same manner with his blade held firmly in both hands, a warrior true. Legolas had never met the man but his reputation was bore out by the grief of commoner and noble, soldier and merchant alike who saw him out the city gates. There were sobs from within the crowd, men and women alike.

Just beyond, the Aeanorean men were lined up in two ranks on one side, with the guard of Théoden on the other. Each stood as if on parade, spears pointed upwards, shields to their sides, cloaks billowing in the wind. Nemireth stood with her men, helmet keeping her hair from fluttering as her cloak, posture rigid but head bowed. At the mound that was to be the Prince's, Théoden awaited with his niece, the lady Éowyn dressed in black with hands at her side. Even from so far away, he could see how she held back her sorrow, a battle borne by her fair features. Beside him stood Aragorn, the ranger's head bowed, and hands clasped together as those of the Rohirrim. Even Gimli was silent. Of them all, he knew the dwarf would recognise when a warrior was passing him by, even in death.

It was different to his own people but no less moving and the Elf bowed his head in silent respect. He may not have known the Prince of Rohan but he deserved to be carried to the next life with all the dignity that his station and his courage deserved.

As the body was passed into his tomb, Éowyn began to sing in the language of her people, a beautiful and haunting sound that swept over him and made him gasp silently beneath his breath. It spoke of love and loss, the pain of watching a friend travel where they left behind could not follow, a promise to one day meet them again. How many friends had he to meet again? How many had taken that path? How many had done so for him? How many had he lost?

He felt Aragorn place a hand on his shoulder and in that moment, he was grateful for the presence of his oldest friend.

The tomb was sealed without words or further ceremony from the Rohirrim but in that moment, the Aenoreans spoke in their own tongue, words loud and bold, directed to the sky;

" _Heledron, adar en gwei,_

 _E-semadan i faer en i nearé,_

 _E-anedan ti i-lillaan athan i amar,_

 _An algûl agvas, naeg egor near,_

 _E-lemosan mín galad in i fuin,_

 _Na i meth-o i ambar._ "

"Eru," Nemireth slammed her spear tip against the ground with a solid thud that rang out across the silence, "Stand with him!"

The other soldiers did the same, Rohirrim and Aenorean like, their words joining as one chorus.

"We stand together!"

He searched for her as the crowd began to dissipate, noting that Gandalf went straight for Théoden, but saw then that she held Éowyn in her arms as that composure finally slipped away. He knew then it was not the time to speak with her.

* * *

As it turned out, there was little time to speak with her before a council was called. A rider had arrived from the Westfold from grim news. The Wildmen had attacked from the north and were now rampaging through every village, town and farmstead, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake.

Leaning against one of the pillars, Legolas watched the king as the news was delivered, slumped in his chair with his head buried in his hand. Gandalf watched him as carefully and it was clear as day the wizard did not like what he saw. Of course, it did not help that Gimli sat alongside him, chewing upon the bread before him as a horse munched through oats but save for a wary and unheeded glance, now did not seem the time to rebuke him. Typical dwarf.

"This is but a taste of the horror that Saruman will unleash, all the more potent for he is now driven by fear of Sauron," Gandalf placed a hand on the throne, "Ride out and meet them!"

"You have two thousand good men riding north as we speak," Aragorn was puffing on his pipe, managing a more dignified spectacle than their Erebor companion, "Éomer is loyal, his men will fight for you."

"Éomer will be three hundred leagues from here by now. It would take weeks to find him in the north," Théoden growled, the sound of a man who felt his options being closed off one by one, "He cannot help us." He turned to Nemireth, who sat across the hall with her own second, helmet at her side, "What news of the forces we have? Can we face Saruman in open battle?"

It was almost sarcastic but Nemireth answered nevertheless, "Exhausted and demoralised. Facing the Uruk-hai in the open field would be madness."

"Then muster the men you have," Gandalf was urging even as Théoden began to pace, "Draw them away from the women and children."

"We don't have the numbers to meet them in battle!" Théoden snarled, "I will not risk the destruction of my kingdom."

"The destruction of your kingdom is upon you, whether you would risk it or not," Aragorn's words were cutting but, so far as Legolas could see, he spoke the truth.

The King did not seem to see it that way and turned to the man, eyes narrowed, jaw set, "When last I looked, Théoden, not Aragorn was king of Rohan."

Aragorn looked away with a nod, a sign of deference to the lord of the Rohirrim but Théoden did not seem to take it that way and the silence grew until it was broken by a burp from Gimli, followed by the faintest apology as he wiped away his spittle with his beard. For all his complaints of his manners, Legolas could not have timed the intervention better.

"Then what is the King's decision?" Gandalf pressed.

"We make for Helms Deep," Said the King, "We evacuate the city. Marshal Nemireth," He looked to Princess who stood at his order, "Prepare the men. Hama! Pass word about the city, we ride at once, leave all that is not essential for the road behind." The two bowed and departed, Xiphos in tow.

With a growl, Gandalf followed them, Aragorn going with him after an apologetic shrug towards his elven companion. Legolas remained where he was as the king also left, taking with him his court so that all who remained in the hall were he and Gimli.

"Well," Gimli was muffled as he sprayed a considerable quantity of crumbs across the table, making Legolas wince, "That went well."

"The King makes a decision by making no decision at all," He sighed in agreement, "The same choice will be presented to him whether he is here or in Helm's Deep, today or in a week."

"Aye, true enough," A snort as the Dwarf took a chunk out of a chicken leg, "There'll be plenty of orcs need carving up before long. In the meantime, we have chicken," He offered a leg to the Elf, "Have you tried this? It's rather good!"

Even from this distance, he could see the grease dripping from soggy, sagging flesh and he couldn't help but grimace, "I will pass."

"Suit yourself, all the more for me!"


	24. Chapter 23: For Want of Roads

"'Look to my coming, at first light on the last day. At dawn, look to the east.'"

"That's it?" Nemireth bit her lip as she regarded Aragorn, holding the reins of Súletal as she walked alongside the Ranger, "That's all he said?"

"That's all he said."

"No sage advice? No wise council on what's to come?"

"Well, he may have made mention of a trap and how there is no way out of Helm's Deep"

"Oh."

"I believe he may also have referred to the king as a fool for seeking to flee rather than standing and defending his capital."

"Okay."

"The word 'massacre' may also have been used."

"Yes, thank you, Aragorn," She snapped, "I'm sorry I asked now."

"You don't wish to hear more of Gandalf's wisdom?" He raised an eyebrow, glancing back to where Legolas and Gimli followed just behind them but the corners of his mouth twitched.

"If grumbling and muttering under your breath count as wisdom then Gimli must count as the wisest being in all Middle Earth."

Aragorn chuckled aloud, while Gimli descended into those same mutterings, voice deep and gravelly even as the Princess only picked up the occasional word; "insolence", "respect", "nonsense" being the key ones that had her too laughing. She turned to fix him with a smile and saw his complaints melt into deep chortles. Her eyes fell upon Legolas and she saw a ghost of a laugh across his features before he hurriedly tended to the saddle of his mount and she to the grass at their feet where it had been trampled flat.

"What did he mean by the 'last day' anyway?" Éowyn was walking nearby and now broke her silence. It was rare that she would walk with the company, preferring to spend her time with Théoden or amongst the commonfolk. For her part, Nemireth was relieved she was speaking with her at all.

Aragorn rolled his shoulders, "I cannot say."

"Perhaps he means the last day of the age," Nemireth looked ahead to the long line of people as they snaked through the hills of southern Rohan, stretched out for miles between the peaks. Though the going had been tough for these slowest of travellers, many confined to carts or plodding donkeys, there was plenty of chatter and laughter around them, "Because I reckon it will be on that day we finally arrive at Helm's Deep."

"The Princess grows impatient," Legolas finally offered, tone teasing, "Perhaps she sees a different way we may transport so many at once?"

"Not at all," She shook her head, "I am fully in favour of our current strategy. Perhaps we will simply outlast Saruman!"

"A difficult task, I fear," Legolas raised an eyebrow, "for he is quite immortal."

"I don't know," The Aeanorean threw up her hands, reins and all, "Give it time. We're not at Helm's Deep yet. It might even give us time for new hobbies, like playing instruments."

Gimli laughed aloud, axe held over his shoulder and helmet bouncing on his head, "Perhaps we shall face Saruman with a drum and a few flutes!"

"Especially if you're playing one, Gimli," Aragorn offered helpfully, "That alone would put them to flight."

Now it was Nemireth's turn to laugh with the dwarf, who slapped the Ranger on the back heartily with his spare hand.

A horseman appeared from further along the column, wearing the green cloak and scaled mail of the Rohirrim. He bowed his head to first Éowyn and then Nemireth, "My lady, the King requests an update on the rear-guard."

"It's moving," She had to shield her eyes to meet his helmed gaze, for the sun had positioned itself directly behind him, "No sign of the enemy just yet but I'll be sure to let him know if they do appear."

The rider hesitated and Éowyn cleared her throat with a sharp look towards Nemireth, "What the Princes means to say is that the rear-guard is in good shape and there is no sign of enemy pursuit."

The messenger took the message with a near audible exhale of relief and he hurriedly trotted away before Nemireth could say anything further though she was perfectly happy to see him on his way.

"Why must you be so flippant with my uncle?" Éowyn asked once he was comfortably out of ear-shot, "He only asks for an update."

"It's the third update he's asked for this morning already," Nemireth replied, biting back the sharper reply on her tongue. Where had his concern been all those days and weeks ago? It was an unfair accusation, given the wizardry at work beyond the understanding of men and she knew it. However, she could not unsee the decrepit old figure slouched on his throne as she stood before him, uncaring as she tried to keep his kingdom together at the seams, sacrificing her men for his weakness. Any time she tried to push the resentment from her mind, the memories of those funeral pyres returned and so the bitterness clung to her mind, "If he's going to keep calling me a marshal he could at least trust me to tell him when anything untoward appears."

Just to be sure herself, she glanced back beyond the carts holding the oldest and least mobile of Edoras' residents. Just beyond them she could see the blue cloaks and crested helms of the King's Guard, riding in column with outriders posted to either side and behind, scanning the hilly land for any sign of the enemy. She knew she should go back and ride with them, show her face amongst the ranks and let them see her doing her duty but some part of her held her back. Xiphos was overseeing everything and she hated the idea of marching back and trying to take over his role. She could imagine the resentment etched in the men's faces, as she had seen so many times before.

"So, what is Helm's Deep like?" She switched topic, hoping to keep from earning another rebuke from Éowyn, "Is it big?"

The golden-haired maiden shook her head, "I've never seen it myself, I had little reason to visit the south before now. Éomer was always talking about visiting it but he never described it to me."

"It's true name is the Hornburg," Aragorn offered from alongside Nemireth, stroking Brego as he walked him. Nemireth had tried hard not to focus too much on Théodred's former mount and she could see how Éowyn's expression became pained any time she looked in that direction, "It is built into the mountain of Calenardhon, a formidable position with a tall wall and stout keep. King Thengel used it as a base in his campaigns against the raiders of Dunland."

"Yes, my uncle told me the strangest thing about you," Éowyn spoke before Nemireth could, "He says you rode with Thengel, my grandfather. Surely he must be mistaken."

The Princess expected the Ranger to dismiss the idea out of hand but he merely bowed his head in acknowledgement, "King Théoden has a good memory, he was only a small child at the time."

Now it was Nemireth's turn to regard her companion strangely.

"Then you must be nearly sixty, seventy?" No reaction from Aragorn, "Surely you cannot be eighty?"

"Eighty-seven."

"By Eru's mercy," Nemireth exhaled, shaking her head and doing the maths on her head. If he was in his eighties then he must have been born during the time of her Great-Grandfather Vityall. She had known he carried the blood of Númenor as she did but she had thought it would be long diluted by the centuries since the Island's fall, as her own had been. Apparently not. "You carry it well, Aragorn."

"And yet he is but a child," Gimli laughed gruffly, "139 winters have I seen from the mountains of this land, both fear and fierce."

Oh, it was on the tip of her tongue, 'Gimli carries his age less well', but she had teased him enough and so bit her tongue, though the knowing look from Legolas betrayed the visible effort it took.

"Need I guess your age, Master elf?" She asked.

"You may try," His expression slipped into a neutral mask.

"Alright. Twenty-two?"

The mask cracked instantly, "Close."

"Really?"

"No."

"A hundred?"

"Afraid not."

"A thousand?"

"Still not close."

"Ten million?"

"Too much the other way, I fear."

"Alright, I guess up," She was searching his eyes and he was looking back, expression warm, "Tell me."

"Well, I was born in the 87th year of this Age, so that would make me 2900 years old or so by the winters of the earth."

"Two thousa…" She trailed away, mouth hanging open. Nevermind the reign of her great-grandfather, when Legolas had been born, Othion the Great had been king! The realm itself had been but a child! He had been the second king of Aeanor. Her father was the 42nd, "You…um…you carry it supremely well."

Now he looked away but there was a faint smile.

"Well, I shall have to content myself as the youngest of the company," She exhaled, "At least I'm not so young as the hobbits."

Aragorn and Legolas shared a look before the Ranger cleared his throat, "I believe that Frodo, Sam and Merry are in their thirties at least, young by the ages of hobbits. Pippin is a child by the standards of the Shire, only in his late twenties."

"Oh," Nemireth bit her lip as Gimli burst out laughing. She was not sure why but the thought that even Pippin was elder than her by nearly a decade felt especially galling, "Well…okay."

Still the dwarf laughed at her downcast look, "Don't worry, Princess! I'm sure a wetnurse can be ready if you ever get thi-oof!" He was cut off as her tossed cloak wrapped itself around his face, the sight of the dwarf attempting to pull it from his beard brought care-free laughter from them all.

* * *

The weather had been good for much of the journey so far, with skies grey but dry and even the wind leaving them be for a short time. Their luck failed rather spectacularly as they settled for the night, the clouds growing darker and darker in colour until at last, as the tents and fires had just been set within the valley, the first thick drops began to fall. Before long, the rain was pounding down, drumming heavily against the tents and turning the vast, sprawling campsite into a muddy lake complete with thick and oozing rivers where men's boots sank deep up to their heels as they trudged to their watch positions around the outskirts of the canvas city which had sprang up.

Nemireth huddled at one such position, wrapped as deeply in her cloak as she could manage. The rain ran like a waterfall from her hood in front of her face, the wind sweeping the droplets into her face so that soon it was both numbed and sore somehow. Her fingertips were heavy even within her woollen shelter as she gazed out into nothing. From the day, she knew they were surrounded by peaks and hills, shallow valleys and even narrow rivers but now all she could see was the endless void. Beside her sat a bowl of congealed stew, which Éowyn had brought for her. All it had taken was one sniff for her to know that she would not be getting any supper tonight.

"Princess," She had expected Xiphos to visit the guard post, as he had been doing all evening but instead it was Legolas who settled beside her, entirely unperturbed by the weather even as his hair was slicked down over his shoulders and back, "Any word?"

"None, but I have made a discovery," She could see her breath misting before her eyes, shivering fiercely.

"What?" His eyes narrowed immediately, turning to scan the gloom, "What is it?"

"I hate the rain."

"Oh," He relaxed a little but still his gaze swept the unseen horizon, "I see."

"What's wrong? You're tense."

"We're being followed."

"Where?" Her hand immediately went to where her spear was resting against a rock, her shield propped up alongside it, "Close?"

"More distant and more to the north," Only now did the Elf turn to look at her, expression softening, "The King is aware. Xiphos is ready for an attack from the north. Aragorn awaits to the south if they attempt to loop around."

She remembered being in her tent, sound asleep as she prepared for the Battle of Isen the next day. She felt the flicking warmth of flame against her sodden skin, she heard the ringing of steel in her ears and she bit her lip, "Will they attack tonight?"

"I do not believe so. They are distant, the rain and darkness are our friends as much as our enemies."

"What's out there? Uruk-Hai?" She shuddered to think of those terrible beasts falling upon the defenceless at the heart of the camp.

"Warg-riders in small numbers. Scouting parties."

"Warg-riders?"

"Orcs riding great and vicious wolves, servant to Mordor since the darkest days of the First Age."

She snorted, "Wargs, troll, balrogs. The side of evil appear to have the monopoly in monsters. Why don't we get any creatures to help us out?"

He smiled, "I was told we had never needed them before."

"And now?"

"Now, we have Gandalf."

"Still wouldn't say no to a friendly balrog if you could find one."

"I'll keep an eye out." He spied the bowl sitting beside her, the water somehow pooling atop its contents, "I see Éowyn passed by."

Nemireth pulled a face, "She has many, many talents but cooking may not be one of them. I'm keeping it in case I see an orc, then I may throw it at him."

"Here," He went into his pack and pulled out a piece of small triangular load of bread and breaking it in two before handing the larger half to her, settling down beside her on the damp rock, "I have yet to eat today as well."

He settled beside her and nibbled at the corner. There was no such refinement from Nemireth who took a great mouthful and eagerly finished off the segment, enjoying the sweetness. Only when she was done and the pleasant weightiness filled her stomach that she began to blush, "Apologies, I was rather hungrier than I thought."

Legolas just laughed, "I have spent many meals in Gimli's presence so in comparison it is like eating with a-" He stopped himself.

"A princess?"

"Quite," They chuckled together and Nemireth found herself scooting closer to him. Just to share in his warmth of course, for it was quite freezing. How long they sat like that, she could not tell, nor did she care. She was just enjoying being with Legolas and sharing in his company. Her mind was screaming at her to say something but it was just the howl of the wind and the pattering of the rain.

Eventually it was Legolas who broke made the first move, pulling away from the Aeanorean though not without a great degree of hesitation, "I must check the other sentries. They need to be warned."

"Of course," Nemireth felt a weight in her stomach at seeing him go. The urge to say something was not screaming at her but, with a nod of his head, he disappeared into the squall. Only when he was gone did she realise how cold it was, how dark the night had become. With mood now as glum as the weather, she huddled into her cloak and waited for her watch to end.

* * *

Though the night passed without confrontation and the dawn brought a merciful end to the rain, the mood was tense throughout the column. Nemireth now rode with her troops, protecting the rear of Edoras' fleeing citizens. She had thought their progress slow before but after the rain it had reduced to a painful crawl, with wagons becoming stuck every few feet and the road reduced to a muddy soup nearly as thick as Éowyn's stew. It was not helped that still Théoden's messengers harassed her every hour of the day, seeking non-existent updates on the progress of the enemy. There was nothing to tell him, for though the rain had stopped, the cloud had evidently decided it liked the ground better than the sky, for they were shrouded in a mist that concealed the furthest hills from them.

"It really is a beautiful country," Xiphos sighed beside her, sitting atop his horse as Nemireth sat atop Súletal. The elven mount tossed his head, impatient as the column had come to yet another halt for yet another half-sunken wagon to be towed from its boggy prison by some of her men.

"Is it?" She looked about at the distinct lack of features visible, "I'd be somewhere with actual roads."

"All part of the rustic charm," He grinned as, with a final heave, the Aeanoreans hauled the wagon free, "There's plenty of places in Aeanor like this too. Have you ever visited Mallevann to the north?"

She rolled her eyes at him and did not answer.

"I was stationed there with the 5th Legion when I first took the King's coin. The rains there can be like last night but for days on end, and the tiniest stream becomes a raging torrent and you do not so much walk along roads as swim. Armour, shields, food, bedrolls, everything is caked in mud and there's no getting rid of it," He sighed fondly, apparently none the worse for the night he had spent preparing for a battle that had never come, "And then spending every night huddled on watch, expecting the Daoine reavers to emerge from the shadows with their axes. Such a fond time."

"Sounds like hell."

"It was at the time, but it brought us together closer as a unit. Warriors face adversity every day, but it's the shared adversity that makes us soldiers."

"If you say so." They were crossing over a river, not quite the raging torrents of Mallevann but it was wide and it was fast, snaking in both directions as far as she could see. In the centre was a small island on which sat what would pass as a hamlet in these parts, with a stout wooden bridge to each side allowing passage across. The hamlet itself seemed devoid of life, the inhabitants no doubt already joining the column further along. Did it have a name? It must do, though she doubted she would ever learn it.

As the King's Guard passed over the first bridge, a ripple of panic swept down amongst the civilians, the panic growing noticeable amongst their number as their movements became frantic and alarmed. Nemireth looked amongst them as a single word reached her ears.

Wargs.

Now the crowd was pushing forward, leaving the road and charging rushing up the hill as a flock of sheep fled under the presence of a hunting wolf. A green-cloaked messenger appeared, horse glistening with sweat as he came to a screeching halt before them, blade in hand.

"The column is under attack! The King rides to battle!" Without further word, he turned and raced away.

Nemireth hesitated, surrounded by frightened people as they grabbed their youngest and what few possessions they had and running from the bridge. Then she turned to the column, _"King's Guard, prepare to move!"_

"Your Highness," Xiphos cut across her sharply, making her stop dead, "We must stay here."

"You heard him! There's a battle ahead!" She thought of Aragorn, Gimli, Éowyn and Legolas, riding with the king. The thought of their riding into another fight without her was too much to bear, "We have to help!"

"We _must_ protect the rear of the column," He urged, "If the wargs attack from here then there will be no one to stop them."

His words made sense, but she could not suppress her fear, the thought of her friends in battle, fighting and dying. She had not been there when Boromir had died, she would not make that mistake again!

There came a howl from within the mist.

It was coming from behind, from beyond the bridge.

There was no need for her to ride to the enemy.

They were coming to her.


	25. Chapter 24: The Battle of the Bridges

" _e-tâlan!_ " Xiphos kicked away from her and galloped down the column, cloak billowing and voice cutting through the fog, " _e-tâlan_! _e-pellanlîr!"_

Nemireth dismounted with a heavy grunt, boots squelching as they sank into the mud at her feet, cloak getting caught at her shoulders and sword clattering painfully at her side. Her breath came quickly and shallowly while beside her Súletal tossed his head and trotted nervously in place. From all along the column there was shouting and crying as soldier rushed to the back of the column and the citizens of Edoras tried to flee. So many were in carts though, so many were lame or small. Nemireth bit her lip as one cart got stuck in seconds, some of her men breaking off to frantically push with their sergeant bellowing curses and encouragement with alternate breaths.

Xiphos returned, effortlessly dismounting in a single motion and handing off his reins to one of the orderlies. He caught the eye of the Princess then saw where she looked, "Your Highness," He called to get her attention.

"The women, the children," She said in a low voice, the statement tailing off as she looked up at the clean-shaven captain.

Xiphos nodded, "We hold here." He strode towards the second of the bridges, with the small and nameless hamlet before them, houses as ghosts in the fog. Further out she knew there was a second bridge, for she could hear the water bubbling and lapping strongly at its banks beyond her sight. Beyond that still, were the wargs of Mordor and Isengard. Giant wolves, Legolas had called them, with orcs on their backs. What new horror would this be? Fresh howls filled her ears. More of them. Closer than before. Her breath quickened.

The King's Guard was forming, some two hundred men six ranks deep with the river at their back and a forest of spears above their heads. Xiphos had moved down the line to check and so, without missing a beat, Nemireth slipped into the front rank, the men readjusting as she positioned herself, shield in one and spear in the other. She could feel the fear from the men beside her, how they shifted their weight, how prayers were murmured under their breaths quickly as they gripped their weapons and their shields steady. Would their eyes flicker as if looking for an escape? Would they be as Xiphos for whom this appeared to be as routine a day as any other. He could have been in Minas Luin for all the stress that he betrayed in his booming voice,

" _Lemosan i araharné en Minas Luin!_ " He called, striding behind the formation, " _e-carnan pellanvan thalion!"_

You are the King's Guard of the Blue City. You will stand strong.

She could hear them now, the heavy thumps of great paws on the muddy ground. They were rapid, close together. They were charging. The snarls grew in intensity. Fierce and terrifying. There was nothing between them and her. Her heart felt like it was going to beat out of her chest, the urge to flee growing in her mind even as she clenched her spear so tightly she feared she might snap it in her hand.

" _Vocaran ameth!_ " Xiphos drew out the command, drowning out their approaching foe.

" _Anun!_ " With a great ripple, the great oval shields of the Guard were turned to the enemy, Nemireth lowering her weapon and hiding behind her oval protection. She could see her spear tip wavering in front of her eyes. The soft thuds became hard knocking sounds, the scratch of claws on wood. They were on the bridge!

Black shapes lunged from the fog. Terrible beasts with narrow eyes and long snouts, broad shoulders and sharp teeth. Nemireth may have cried aloud but the noise vanished beneath a sickening crash as they fell upon the King's Guard. Men screamed as they fell under the weight, beasts howled as they were skewered, orcs squealed and screeched as they were thrown from their mounts. Nemireth felt a weight upon her shield, then a heavy feeling as she thrust her spear into something unseen before yanking it out. She could smell them, like ash and death, drool and blood splashing across her helmet. The line rippled, then steadied. Wargs jumped this way and that, seeking a way past the spears, the wall that now faced them.

" _Mosan!_ " Xiphos called.

" _Anun!_ " The line stepped up and the wargs jumped back. With yelps that sounded almost like frustration to her ears, they fled back into the curtain of mist behind them.

 _"Darnas!_ " Xiphos blew a loud, piercing shriek of his whistle. Those who had taken the charge, those at the front stepped back and their comrades behind stepped up. The move was seamless, a dance of discipline made effortless by countless hours on training grounds, practised time and time again until they could perform it anywhere, at any time. Only Nemireth stayed where she was, stubbornly refusing to move as the men to her left and right were replaced. This was her unit, she would not be a spectator.

The galloping came again. More howls from in front. Her heart seemed to be in time with the onrushing paws. The wargs returned. More this time, some bleeding from before, some riderless. Again she cowered behind her shield, and held her spear ready. Again, they crashed against the line of men who dared stand before them. Again, the charge stopped amongst the dying of wargs, orcs and men alike. Quicker this time, they fled. The gaps in the line made by dead and dying men were filled by sergeants who pulled the Guards roughly, organising them into a solid mass again. Nemireth looked to her left and right, the men there were different than those before. Where the two soldiers from before?

There was no time for breath now. No sooner had the first shadows vanished than more appeared, as if the fog itself were birthing them, over and over again. The line held as they were hit by the beasts of Mordor, their dead piling up before the spears of Aeanor. This time, Nemireth caught an orc in the saddle, lancing his throat and watching as he fell away before they turned and retreated into the fog.

" _Darnas!"_ Another whistle blow. The formation shook and rippled as those who had taken the brunt of the charges fell back and their places taken by fresh men, ready to stand their ground and give their comrades rest from the next charge. This time, Nemireth felt herself hauled back from the battle, throat stinging and limbs heavy, eyes wide and wild as she looked for who had dared take her from the battle. It was Xiphos himself.

It was not long in coming. Again came that terrible scratching and pounding as the wargs barrelled across the first bridge then amongst the houses as they fell upon their supposed prey. Only this prey did not run. It did not panic. As one, they thrust with spears and held their shields aloft against snarling, drooling wargs who snapped and orcs who lunged with spears and swords alike only to find themselves tossed to the ground or cut down. Some made it through the front line and Nemireth watched with horror at them carving a path with their weight and size only to be surrounded and felled. Again, they retreated.

The next charge was immediate and many wargs leapt over the front ranks and landed upon the guards. Blood sprayed in all directions, red and black alike as men were crushed or caught in those terrible jaws only for their assailants to have the favour returned on the tips of aenorean blades. Sergeants pushed men into the line with sharp barks and harsh commands, those behind looser thanks to the dead wargs who had stormed through and onto the carpet of spears above their head. The next charge would not be long in coming.

There came a great crashing noise, a thundering roar as if a great building were toppling over, the crack of snapping trunks and the snap of thick ropes filling their ears. It was followed by yelps and cries and brief splashes that were instantly swallowed up by the sound of the river. There was no more sound of paws upon the ground. No more snarling or calling. There was only the river and the cries of the wounded.

Xiphos held a strong formation and bade them advance towards the bridge. It was only moments after the fog swallowed them that a runner re-emerged with news. The bridge ahead had collapsed, another victim of the wargs as their weight and numbers had overwhelmed the structure and sent them into the gushing torrent beneath. Of them there was no sign, just the white-crested river as it raced down the mountain and brought with it the wargs of Mordor.

What few orcs and wargs remained alive were swiftly finished, Nemireth watching as the wounded Aenoreans were loaded into carts. The battle was over and yet her heart would not stop thumping against her ribcage. Her spear was dark with blood, even her shield coated in all manner of liquids she did not dare think about. The wounds of her men turned her stomach. Some had terrible bites, whole chunks of flesh torn out of their bodies like a chicken leg. Others had been caught about the face or chest by spears or swords and they were helped into the carts by their comrades. She could not help but stare but hurriedly pulled herself away. Few Aeanoreans lay dead, not compared to their attackers but already Xiphos was giving the order to remount the horses and form column.

"Xiphos!" Her eyes flicked to the blue cloaked men who lay still amidst the mud, "The dead…"

"There is no time, your majesty," He bowed his head to her, now sitting atop his horse, "There could be another riving crossing further downstream and the longer we delay, the more space is put between us and the rest of the column. We can honour our dead once we are safe."

These men had fought for Rohan and died for Rohan, must they lie here in a nameless crossing until the end of the world? She wanted to ask it but found that her tongue was too heavy and her mouth too dry. Before she could gulp down enough air to replay, Xiphos had moved on and with the rest of the troops already forming up to march, what else could she do but clamber atop Súletal and join them. The battle had not felt long but there was on sign of civilians as they trotted along the road, the mist clearing as they descended down the paths and into the valley of the Hornburg. Had Théoden lost his battle? Had the people of Rohan been overran and destroyed as the Aeanoreans had fought their own battle? Even the thought left her feeling cold, the idea of Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas lying dead in the fields as her own men now lay, of Éowyn facing those awful beasts…

"Xiphos, can we ride faster?"

The Captain looked to her, "The men are tired. They must rest."

"But…if the wargs defeated the king…"

"If the wargs defeated the king then our charging into a valley will not help."

"I am the Captain-Commander of this legion, Xiphos!"

"Of course you are, your majesty," He was patient even at her rising anger, "But I have fought my fair share of battles, in snow, sand, grass and dust. You must trust in that experience."

She knew he was right. He was always right. But the thought of her friends lying dead or dying in the field would not leave her and she stared right at the Aeanorean who was now watching the horizon, "Xiphos, I order you to bring the company to quick-march."

"Your majesty-" She did not care what he had to say. She did not care that the men glared at her as they rode past. In her mind, all she saw was a broken Legolas lying still beneath a warg's paw.

"-now, Xiphos. Now!" She slapped her hand against her own hip, the ringing noise making Súletal's ears perk up.

The Captain was quiet for a moment before turning his head to the men, his men, " _Araharné, e-skoúnaran!_ "

The pace quickened and Nemireth kicked at Súletal's side so he too would speed up. The gesture was harder than she meant and she felt him flinch beneath her as she dug her heels into his side. Regret welled up and she petted at his head without response. Xiphos was not looking at her, nor were the men. Every mile they rode, the distance between them seemed to grow and grow. Soon horses and men alike were panting and even Nemireth's thighs were beginning to burn in the saddle but still on they rode. Xiphos had to divert nearly half their men as they began to leave the carts carrying the wounded behind but still on they rode. Beyond each crest she expected to find a carpet of dead and dying Rohirrim but each time there was none. Still, on they rode.

At last, the fortress of Helm's Deep loomed into view, a squat and ugly keep with a long, tall wall protecting the end of the valley. They rode up the causeway, the horn of the Rohirrim blowing to mark their arrival and the gates being thrown open. Instantly, Nemireth's eyes skipped over the men and women alike who milled about the narrow entry and searched for a certain dark-haired man, a stout dwarf and a blond-haired elf. She could not see them, but she did see the king's banner atop the tallest tower. He had won his battle.

Many of her men were now slumped in their saddles, pain and exhaustion etched across their faces. She could not bear to look at them, nor at Xiphos as he rode up to her, his voice cutting enough to make her flinch, "Permission to dismiss the men, your highness?"

She nodded.

With a curt command, they began to fall out but Xiphos turned and rode for the gate with a few chosen riders. At her questioning look, he bowed his head, "I will return with the wounded and their escort, your majesty."

"I'll accompany you, Captain-"

"-I think it's best you remain here, your highness." There was not so much as a hint of a smile as he bowed in the saddle once more and then disappeared beyond the gate. She was left amidst the throng of people that moved about the keep of the Hornburg, surrounded and yet alone.

Once she had left Súletal at the stables, she began to search for her friends. She had hoped to see Brego or Baldor, Legolas' horse but she saw no sign of them. Fear began to gnaw at her insides as she checked about the keep without success. She knew she should present herself to the king and report of their successful fight yet that fear drove her away from his halls and down to the Deeping Wall, as she learned it was called, searching amongst the common folk for any sign of them.

"Nemireth!"

It was Éowyn's voice and the relief of hearing any that was recognisable to her filled the Princess with relief. She turned to find the lady of Rohan upon her and without a word she threw herself into the Aeanorean's arms. It was all Nemireth could do to hug her back. Only when they parted did she notice the look in her eyes and dread washed away all hope as surely as the river had taken the wargs from the battlefield. It was a look she had only seen once before in those eyes. The day Théodred had passed.

"Éowyn, what's happened?" The question came out as barely a whisper, "Where are the others?"

"Gimli and Legolas are at the entrance to the caves, they're fine. Aragorn…"

A coldness passed over her. It couldn't be.

"I'm so sorry Nemireth, he fell." She lowered her eyes.

A lump had formed in Nemireth's throat and all she could do was nod back curtly before parting from the Rohirrim lady and heading for the back of the marshy, muddy ground where most of Rohan seemed to have gathered. She bounced from one person to the other, earning looks both resentful and pitiful but she cared not, either for their challenges or their praise. The glittering caves loomed ahead of her and there she saw the first flicker of long, blonde hair. Legolas was sat upon a bench, bow abandoned beside him, hands clasped together and head bowed. Gimli stood beside him, leaning against his axe as if all the world were pressing down on those broad shoulders. It was he who looked up first and gave her a grimace but she knelt before him and threw her hands around him, bringing the dwarf in tight, the smell of mud and battle strong in her nose but as she pulled away, she saw a softness in his expression, a silence thanks as she turned to Legolas.

She had never seen him like this before. Not at the death of Gandalf, not when talking of the passing of Boromir. It was if he was looking beyond the world, to a shadow only he could see in the mud. Even the call of his name did not stir him, the blood of battle still black against his cheek, his quiver half-empty. Sitting beside him, she took him not in a tight embrace but instead put her arm around him, leaning against his shoulder as she felt tears sting at her eyes, lips pressed together so that she would not sob against him. Even so she felt his arm come around and pull her closer, the grief manifest in every movement he made. There was nothing she could say, nothing she could do but be there, sit with him for as long as he needed, for as long as she needed. Gimli took his leave, the mourning of dwarves a solitary affair, or at least so for the warrior of the Lonely Mountain. How long they sat in one another's company, she could not say, nor did she care. Life passed them by, the people of Rohan settling into their new mountain home and yet it was but a flicker to the Princess as her tears dried against her cheeks.

First Boromir and now Aragorn. Why were the Valar being so cruel, chipping away at their Fellowship, one by one? How many more would they demand in sacrifice?

"My lady," The voice belonged to that of a messenger, his face concealed behind his helm, green cloak fluttering in the breeze. Nemireth looked at him as if he were the physical manifestation of Sauron himself, "I apologise, but the king requests your presence."

She did not move, holding on to Legolas as he held her but she felt a shift from him as his arm dropped away, a single whispered word reaching her ear, "Go."

It sounded hoarse, as if some great internal pain had spilled forth and she could not help but take his hand in hers and squeeze it, "I will return." She murmured back before reluctantly hauling herself from the bench and following the Rohirrim soldier towards the keep.

Théoden stood with Gamling, his steward, leaning against a table in the great hall. He had made it through his battle without a scratch it seemed. Why had he lived where Aragorn had not? Where Théodred had not before him? There was no sign of Hama, the man who had granted her entry so many times to the Golden Hall. Had he too fallen before the wargs? Another face she would never see again? When he looked up, she saw the lines in his face that had not been there before, a tiredness to his eyes not unlike that of his days sitting comatose upon his throne while his country burned around him.

"My lady, what news of the rear-guard?"

That question. That infernal question that had so bothered her for days.  
"We were attacked. By wargs," She snapped the words out, uncaring of how Gamling glaring warningly in her direction, "But don't worry, most of us made it back."

The king's eyes bored into hers and suddenly she could not help but look at the floor though her resentment did not abate.  
"How many wounded? How many dead?" He asked, tone gentle.

She did not know. By Eru's damnation, she had not counted, nor even asked. Now the resentment began to fall away, replaced instead by loathing of just one person. Herself. Her answer was all but choked out, "Some dead…more wounded."

"We'll see them taken care of. Go get some rest, my lady. There will be much planning in the days to come." He glanced down at the table once again.

Dismissed. As simple as that. She bowed as that old protocol came back to her and she left his presence.

There was no sign of Legolas when she returned but the princess sat upon the bench still and stared at the mud pooling between her boots as he had done. It was not grief alone that held her now but shame; the officer who couldn't lead, and the diplomat who couldn't speak.

In that moment, surrounded by so many people, she had never felt more alone.


	26. Chapter 25: Regrets and Resolve

Quite how long it was before the horns on the battlements above the bridge sounded the return of Xiphos and the rest of the company, Nemireth had no idea. She had spent the time wandering throughout the citadel and then down into the mud in search of Legolas and Gimli, someone to share in her misery but even in so small a fortress she could not find them. The masses of people did not help, pushing her this way and that like a wine bottle cast amongst a storm and she allowed herself to be carried by the current, unheeding of dirty looks or harsh words in a language she did not understand. Only when she heard that horn was she sparked to action, fighting her way to the one clear area in the entire castle; where she saw bedraggled and exhausted men lifting themselves heavily from tired horses, covered in mud and blood alike. Each soldier was a bastion of civility as they passed her, bowing their heads with whispered words of "Your Highness" or "Captain-Commander" but she caught more than one dirty look when the men thought she could not see them. The wounded all but fell off their horses, carried from the courtyard by their companions, shuffling up the stairs and guided by the Rohirrim. There were so many, more than she had expected and what little colour was left in her face had gone by the time she found Xiphos towards the rear of the column.

He walked with a little limp, though stiffness from riding or from some unseen injury she could not say. Had there been this many injured when the battle had ended? It had not seemed so much. Had they been attacked on the way here? Her heart near sank to her boots at the thought as she approached the worn and haggard Captain.

"Xiphos," She looked him in the eye, searching his expression for some form of joviality but there was none, just the same tired look as the eyes of her men. Were her own eyes the same? Ground down from weeks of battles without victories, skirmishes without point, losses without rebate. Did the drain show in her face as it showed in his?

"Princess," He bowed his head and even in his face, this time she thought she saw something that had not been there before. Was it frustration at having yet more of his advice ignored? Was it the physical toll? She wished she knew but the question dancing on her tongue weighed heavily and when it burst forth it was little more than a whisper.

"How many?"

"Fifty, all told," He sighed, "Dead and wounded. Some of the wounded…didn't make it."

She pressed her lips together as a coldness ran through her veins, "Because I pushed them."

The Captain rolled his shoulders, "Many were badly wounded anyway and would not have made it."

He did not deny it. Oh, Eru, how many of her own men had she killed?

"I…I need to go-" She tried to step away but a firm had took her wrist, so tight that she could do little but wince, the gasp that escaped silent to all but her and Xiphos who was now glaring at her with an anger that would have fixed her in place as surely as if it were Sauron himself.

"You're going nowhere, Princess," He snarled, somehow managing to keep his voice low though a few of the Rohirrim on the gate above watched with some interest, "These men are my charge, my brothers through the bond of shed blood. I raised them up from meek boys into men that can weather the bitterest storms and most violent battle. I have shielded them from spear and death and they have spared me from the wraiths with their own discipline and loyalty. Loyalty that they have shown you time and again. Loyalty you tossed aside and trod upon just so you could ease your aching heart. What are these men to you? The ones you lead, who follow your orders, who have died for you, who would die for you still. You need to be their leader. You will not run. Not this time. Stand up, be the commander I _know_ you can be. Now if you will excuse me, Princess?"

He waited until she gave him the slightest of nods and then he was away, heading up the steps and into the keep proper, leaving her with the Rohirrim who were leading the horses of her men to the stables. Xiphos had grabbed her.

If he had been in Minas Luin and done that, there gesture alone would have been enough to see him stripped of rank, if not thrown in prison for daring to touch the Princess-Royal against her will. That was if he was lucky. But not here. Here no one cared that he had grabbed the Princess Royal. Here no one cared that he had breached protocol in the worst way possible. Here, there was only one thing she could do. Listen to him.

Drawing in breath and trying to ignore the eyes still on the Princess from the foreign land who hovered like a hesitant lamb in the middle of a keep preparing for war, she made for the hospital. It was not difficult to find, with a few helpful people to guide her and once there, the scale of the wounded became clear. Every bed seemed like it was occupied by an Aeanorean or a Rohirrim trooper, with few people passing between them, leaning down to check wounds or change dressings but mostly leaving them alone. Light seemed to be coming from one tiny window, high up in the wall, less a place of healing and more like a grim, grey prison where the wounded sat alone. The smell alone was enough to turn her stomach but with a deep breath, she stepped in. Xiphos was right. Too long had she been following them around like a puppy after her mother, refusing to lead. No longer.

The first man she found was typically Aeanorean in look; dark haired and dark eyed with strong muscles but clean shaven. His breastplate had been removed and at his shoulder she could see a dark spot that had been covered in bandages. A spear wound, she would guess. He had been looking down at something in his hands but glanced up at her approach and his eyes widened and he scrambled to rise, grunting in pain.

"Sit and rest easy," She put a hand on his shoulder, suddenly deeply uncomfortable. She knew his face, for she had seen him on parade and patrol but she did not know his name, "Do not rise on my account." Suddenly her mind was swept clean. What did she say to him? What did she ask? When had she ever tried to make small talk with any of the common soldiers? "Does it hurt?" She nodded to his wound then immediately berated herself. Such a stupid question!"

"It does a little, Your Majesty," He replied hurriedly, looking anywhere but her face, "But not too bad. I hope to be back in line soon."

"Excellent," She eyed the little idol in his hands, rough cut but faintly recognisable. A token from the Emerald Plains? Some symbol of the Wind god they still worshipped out there? Was it carved by him? By someone special to him? Dare she ask? Instead, she bit her lip and the silence dragged on until suddenly she would rather have been back in the courtyard.

The soldier cleared his throat, "Your Majesty? I believe the nurse is behind you."

Sure enough, there stood an impatient Rohirrim lady who cared little of Nemireth's rank and hurriedly bustled her aside. With all those questions lingering in her mind, she moved on to the next bed.

As she passed amongst the wounded of her company, two things became clear to her; that she had no idea who half of the men of Xiphos' company were and that she had even less idea of how to talk to them than the first. Their reactions were varied, some as confused as the first had been, others actually seemed happy at her bumbling, muttering presence while others rolled their eyes to the ceiling as if silent prayer for her to leave. Those she gave their wish to and quickly, visiting around fifteen in all before taking her leave. There had been more than that on arrival, no? But try as she might, she could not see them. Were their wounds more serious? Were they away from the men, fighting for their lives? How many should have been here? How many would have been here if not for her decision to push them?

Those thoughts so clouded her mind that she nearly crashed into a man entering as she left. To her surprise, it was none other than Théoden who stood before her, Gamling loyally at his side, "My lady," he bowed and she returned the gesture, seemingly bearing no ill-will for her accidental collision, "I'm glad I found you, there will be a meeting in the hall once I have done here, if you could be so good as to wait for me? I will not be long. You have visited your wounded? Good, it does the men well to have you in their presence."

"Indeed," She doubted that very much but before she could say much more, the King had pushed past her without another word, only for her to find her voice, "Your Majesty! Are my men being seen to? With food and provisions?"

The King seemed surprised and a few of those on the nearest beds looked but it was Gamling who answered, "They have been given beds, my Lady, and food."

"Oh, good." With little more to say she watched as the King went about the beds as she had done. He spent little more time at their sides than she had but somehow he made it seem effortless, words murmured back and forth between them, the odd pat on the shoulder and a chuckle from either monarch or soldier before he moved on. Oh, how she longed to know what he said, how was it so easy for him? Why did Théoden King have the common touch where she did not?

Next was the men who took their rest but when she got there, she found many asleep and those who were not huddled together around a fire murmuring to one another. They did not so much as look up as she entered and, rather than try their patience after such a day, she instead took her leave.

And immediately ran into Legolas.

"Oh, sorry," She mumbled and went to move past him as quickly as possible.

"Wait, my lady," He had turned but the space she had opened up between them had been swiftly filled with people going about their business. Still he stood there, rooted in place, as if there were some speech forthcoming but instead he just stared. She did the same, recalling the relief at finding he was okay, followed by the crushing news of Aragorn, then the news of her own casualties. Why had she pushed them? To protect Rohan? Or to protect her friends? How many men had died because of her desire to see the Prince of the Green Wood again?

So instead she turned and allowed herself to be swallowed by the crowd.

* * *

When the King had said he would not be long, he was true to his word. It was she who opened the door to find him waiting along with Xiphos and Gamling, the entirety of the officers present at Helms Deep. Though Gamling heaved a rather dramatic sigh, Théoden himself barely raised an eyebrow and nodded in greeting,  
"Good of you to join us, Princess Nemireth, now we may begin."

"I apologise, Your Majesty, I was…seeing to something," She looked to her Captain who would not meet her eye.

"Well, now we must tend to something even more pressing, the defence of this keep. Between us we have three hundred good men of Aeanor and Rohan," Théoden's voice echoed in the mostly empty hall, with naught for company but unoccupied benches and merrily burning braziers, "Princess Nemireth, how many do you reckon will come against us? Our scouts have yet to locate the force."

"You are certain that one marches, your Majesty?" Asked another voice. To her surprise, she found Legolas had entered via a side-door, with Gimli at his side. "Have your forces at Isen reported any movement from Orthanc?"

"We…have had no contact with Grimbold or his men," Gamling sighed once again, head bowed, "We cannot assume that the news is dire."

The Elf bowed his head in deference to the grim intelligence, "Then we must move swiftly, for beyond Gandalf and perhaps Éomer, no friendly forces may exist beyond the walls of this fortress."

"Indeed, Master Elf, and that we shall do," Théoden did not seem to appreciate the news being delivered in such a frank manner but Nemireth could not see how it could have been done otherwise, nor did she care, "The men of Rohan shall defend the Keep, while the Aeanoreans shall hold the walls," his eyes bore into Nemireth's, "Are your men up to the task?"

Xiphos responded before she could, helmet tucked under his arm, "We bring no archers or skirmishers with us so will be of limited use until they are upon the walls."

"We make the best of what we have, Captain," The King replied, "I am sure Master Legolas will do you the honour of standing with you on the wall."

"Of course, your Highness," Legolas inclined his head.

"Then there is nothing more to say. No matter the strength our enemy marches in, be it five hundred or five thousand, we shall be ready." And with that, they were dismissed. Xiphos hurried out the same side door of the hall as Legolas had entered and she had no chance to speak with him. Legolas likewise spared her a look before taking his leave.

"It's a grim business, Lassie," Gimli alone had remained and now stood beside her, hair a tangled mess without his helmet and yet perfectly shaped as if it were still atop his head, "It's always a grim business."

"How do they do it, Gimli?" She asked him quietly without looking, "How do they make war so easy?"

The Dwarf snorted, "That's the secret Lassie. War is never easy." He patted her on the arm and then took his leave, the Princess now alone in the room and more confused than ever.

* * *

The next day brought little more respite. Runners were coming and going constantly, asking for updates on the King's behalf, everything from the quality of her men's arms to the width of their shields to the formations they could take. Each she answered as best she could, wishing each time that Xiphos was at her side to make sure she was right. Still the Captain had not spoken to her and with each hour that passed without a quip, without an irritating tease or mistimed joke she found herself longing for them, like a smoker whose pipe could not be found. It gave her no choice but to be the one giving the orders, though there were few to give. Now safe within the confines of the walls, she spent most of her time chasing down sufficient food for the few men she had left, visiting the wounded in hospital and awkwardly standing beside them often without speaking. Back with the first dark-haired man, whose visit she had left until last this time, she finally summed up the courage to speak the question that had been dancing on her mind the entire time.

"Soldier," A terrible way to start and it almost stopped her in her tracks but she willed herself on, "What is your name?"

He seemed as surprised as she, "Amathor, Your Highness."

"After the king?"

"After my father, Your Highness."

"It's a nice name…and I'm not just saying that because he's my ancestor," He burst out into a laugh and the reaction brought a grin to her face. By the Valar, how long had it been since she had just smiled? How long since she had made a joke? "Your father was a soldier?"

"He was, in the 8th Legion. He was very proud when I joined the King's Guard, Your Highness."

"As he should be," She nodded keenly, "Wait until he hears about Middle Earth."

Amathor's expression dropped a little, "I need not return for that, Your Highness. He died some time ago."

"Oh," That was just typical of her, and things had been going so well, "I'm sorry."

"He travels on the winds now, Your Highness. So I can sit and tell him of my adventures each night."

"Is he jealous?"

"Of this, Your Highness," The soldier poked at his bandaged wound, which to her delight seemed to have stopped bleeding, "I doubt it very much."

Another laugh, a genuine laugh, the most liberating feeling in the world as there came a great disturbance from outside the hall, muttering and whisperings of what she could not tell. With some reluctance, she stood, "I think I need to go, but I will visit again, Amathor."

"I look forward to it, Your Majesty," He bowed as awkwardly as one would expect from one lying in a bed with a bad shoulder and the Princess, feeling just a little lighter, strode out into the grim light of the Rohan morning.

The whispers had not abated as she descended the steps. They were not panicked and none of the guards seemed greatly disturbed so it must not be the enemy. A returning patrol? Hardly, they came and went every hour so unless one had returned with an orc head, she failed to see why it would elicit such excitement.

She went all the way to the entrance where she found Gimli positively giddy with excitement. A great deal of the attention seemed to have been gathered around him but surely a dwarf was no longer such a novelty? Had he done something amusing? Consumed a ships worth of ale, perhaps?

"Gimli," She approached him, cutting through the masses, "What-"

"That lad…" He seemed not to have heard her, shaking his head and muttering under his breath, "That canny lad…"

"Gimli?" She had to snap her fingers to get his attention, "What is going on?"

"Ah lassie!" He'd had no idea she was there, "He's back! I still can't believe it, of all the luck-"

"Who's back, Gimli? Gandalf?"

"Aragorn! He's gone to speak with the king!"

She was off running before he had even finished. Taking the steps two at a time, taking the same route he must have taken for the whispers were strong along her entire path right up to the King's Hall, outside of which she found Legolas. Their eyes met and the Elf let slip the smallest of smiles before gesturing to the doors behind him. She threw her arms around him in the deepest hug, which clearly he did not expect but before he could say anything, she was off again, throwing open the doors and entering the hall.

"Ah, Princess Nemireth," Said the rather serious looking Théoden, "We were about to send word for-"

Now she took Aragorn in a hug, pressing him close which caused him to tense and wince, so she hurriedly released him from her gip. Rather than the rebuke she expected from his face, she found only the flicker of amusement but it was swiftly buried beyond a grim mask.

"Lord Aragorn brings us word," The King spoke rather lightly, as if it were the results of an archery competition.

"Your Highness," The Ranger looked terrible, a wound at his shoulder, clothes soaked and unsteady on his feet yet his voice was strong as it had ever been, "I rode from the river not half a day's ride from here and made to this fortress. While attempting to find the main road, I came across a great host of Uruk-Hai armed with spears and swords aplenty."

"A great host, you say?" Théoden began pacing.

"All Isengard has emptied."

"How many?"

"Ten thousand strong, at least."

That stopped the King dead in his tracks as he turned to Aragorn. Nemireth could not blame him. Ten thousand? The number was impossible, a force no Aeanorean King had put in the field in nearly two hundred years, over six full strength Legions. It was an impossible number. "Ten thousand? Surely you miscounted?"

Aragorn shook his head slowly, "It is an army bred for a single purpose, to destroy the world of men."

All eyes went to the King and the Princess could see him physically draw himself up, pulling on some unknown reserve of courage as he puffed his chest out, "Let them come!"


	27. Chapter 26: Honouring Alliances

"They shall break upon this fortress like water upon rock!" Théoden's meeting had moved to the wall of the citadel where the sentries bowed as their king passed, "Saruman's horde will pillage and burn, we've seen it before. Crops can be resown, homes rebuilt. Within these walls, we can outlast him."

"They don't come for Rohan's crops or villages," Aragorn's frustration was as biting as it was remarkable for Nemireth, the first time she had heard such from him. At first, she had thought it just exhaustion from his journey and the preceding battle but now she could see something more. The joy of his return had faded to be replaced by concern. It certainly did not help that he had not yet rested and was still bloodied and dirtied from his battle.

"Then he is more foolish than I believed," Théoden laughed aloud, drawing the eyes of a few nearby guards, "No enemy has ever breached the Deeping Wall," He gestured to the curtain wall that stretched out from the keep to the high mountain on the opposite side, separating the marshy ground beyond the fortress from the bog within and now thronged with refugees from across the country, "Or set foot inside the Hornburg!"

"If the numbers are as great as Aragorn says, your majesty," Xiphos spoke from over Théoden's shoulder, "Then they may plan to assault the keep without delay."

"They are welcome to try, Captain. They will find the steel and resolve of Rohan is more than their equal!"

"This is no rabble of mindless orcs!" Gimli thumped the shaft of his axe upon the stone ground for emphasis, glaring at the Rohan king, "These are _Uruk-hai!_ Their armour is thick and their shield's broad."

Théoden took a step closer to the dwarf, straightening out to stand nearly twice his height. The tension between the two was palpable but Gimli did not so much as twitch, not even when the King spoke low and sharp, "I have fought many wars, Master Dwarf. I know how to defend my own keep."

He moved on and the Princess was sure her sigh of relief was shared by all those watching. Gimli merely shook his head as Aragorn patted his shoulder.

Théoden had moved on, "There is no true food source for a dozen leagues or more, the roads impossible for carts to travel in this weather. Saruman's rabble cannot hope to maintain a siege!"

"With ten thousand, they won't need to," Gimli grumbled under his breath, the statement so quiet that Nemireth was sure she was the only one who had heard it.

The King had clearly not heard for he continued to give orders to the lieutenants who trailed behind the party, "I want every man and strong lad able to bear arms to be ready for battle by nightfall. Stack stones and spears atop the keep and reinforce the main doors! All women and children are to wait in the caves until the deed is done."

Hama and the others scuttled off, Xiphos catching the eye of the Princess as he followed at a more leisurely pace. That just left the four of them with Théoden who now leant against his battlements and stared out onto the rolling hills and mountains that dotted the horizon, as if he could see the army approaching, "Yes, towns are towns and cities are cities but the spirit of Rohan. That is here. That is something Saruman cannot burn."

"It is precisely the spirit he means to burn," Aragorn hissed, "He does not wish to raze Edoras or the Hornburg he wants to destroy their people, down to the last child."

Théoden spun so quickly Nemireth was sure he had drawn a blade and took a step back. Instead he took the man by the scruff of his collar and pulled him close. Beside her, Legolas took a half-step closer, eyes narrowed.  
"What would you have me do?" the King hissed so low, she could barely hear him, "Look at my men, their courage hangs by a thread! If this is to be our end, then I will have them make _such_ an end, as to be worthy of remembrance!"

He released Aragorn and went to leave but the Ranger called after him, stopping him dead in his tracks, "Send out riders, my lord! You must call for aid!"

The King returned, steps slow and eyes narrowed, anger radiating in every breath, contempt in every syllable, "And who will come? Elves? Dwarves? We are not so lucky in our friends as you. The old alliances are dead."

"Not all, my lord," Nemireth found her voice, though almost immediately wished she'd stayed silent as both King of Rohan and Ranger of the North turned to stare at her, "Not all the alliances are dead."

"Perhaps," He growled, "Some have answered, too many have stayed silent."

"Gondor will answer." Aragorn declared.

"Gondor?" The anger was immediate, bursting forth like a flood from a weakened dam, "Where was Gondor when the Westfold fell? Where was Gondor when our enemies closed in around us? Where was Gon-" He stopped himself with a choke before regaining some measure of composure, "No, my Lord Aragorn. We are who we have here. Beyond that, we are alone." He strode away summoning yet more messengers and dispatching commands beyond her ability to hear.

And now it was just the four of them; the four who had set forth from Rivendell all those months ago standing together in silence. Nemireth looked around and saw that the nearest sentries were watching them, some slyly out of the corners of their helmets and others not even attempting to hide it. Were they looking to them for encouragement? She hoped not, for she felt none herself. Only a growing dread in her stomach, a heaviness that went beyond nerves or fear.

"Aragorn," Legolas broke the silence, speaking little above a whisper, "Ten thousand…are you sure?"

He nodded.

"It'll be a hard fight then," Gimli shook his head, leaning against his hammer, "And time is no longer our ally."

"Was it ever?" Legolas was watching above where swarms of black birds had began to gather above the fortress, like those who had watched them travel in the very early days of their journey. The feeling in the pit of her stomach only grew deeper.

Saruman was already watching.

* * *

With each step, Nemireth's boots sank a good half inch into the mud, sodden by the incessant rain and then churned up by the mass of refugees who had briefly called it home, watching as they were herded towards the keep and the caves by the men of the Rohirrim. In front of her, standing to attention, was Xiphos' company, spears in one hand and oval, eagle faced shields in the other. Their armour was dented and mud-splattered, cloaks torn and tattered, hair long and uncut. Had an officer of Minas Luin looked upon the elite formation of the Aeanorean army, he would have wept at their state but instead Nemireth was searching their faces. They were tired, worn, many were haggard as only men with too much work and too little sleep could look, an alien sight to her not so long ago. She searched the faces beneath helmets for signs of Amathor but she did not see him amongst the assembled ranks.

"How many?" She asked without turning.

"A hundred and fifty, all told," Xiphos answered gravely, "And another twenty wounded who won't be ready."

"Where will they be?"

"In the caves, your majesty. They'll be the final line of defence when…if, the worst should occur."

The Princess nodded, unable to shake the heaviness as she watched some elderly refugees being helped up the stairs to the keep, "The men have been fed and rested?"

"As much as can be."

Only now did she turn to inspect the top of the Wall. It was good and thick with large and solid stones firmly locked together but for a small grate at it's base, currently half-submerged in rainwater. It was smaller than the walls she was used to at Minas Luin, but it would be enough. There was little point in wishing for more now.

"Has Théoden given us any archers for support?"

"Aside from Legolas, your majesty?"

"Besides him."

"None yet. He has said that the archers can support the wall from the keep."

"All of it?"

"So he says."

She looked up to the Keep, tall and imposing from so close to the ground and then across to the other end of the wall, "Ask if he can spare anything. Even spears that we could throw. I'll take pebbles if he has a few."

"I'm sure he'll happily lend us some stones."

She glanced to her Captain. He was not smiling, nor was he making eye contact. She bit her lip but fought back the urge to just _talk_ to him. Now was not the time.

"Then there's nothing more we can do until nightfall. See that the men are ready."

"Of course, your majesty." He turned to the assembled troops, " _Araharné! Tafenan!_ " He blew his whistle and the men broke up, most heading for the keep. Xiphos went with them, muttering in a low voice to a few, gesturing to their weapons and drawing a few laughs. She went to follow but instead found herself fixed in place, half sunken into the mud, hands behind her back and now alone beneath the shadow of the Keep. She exhaled slowly, watching as her men climbed the narrow steps up to the highest levels of the keep. They would be a nightmare to retreat up, narrow and steep, should the worst occur. The heavy weight in her stomach seemed to twist at the mere thought. Only once she was sure they were gone did she head for the steps herself. Drawing her sword, she checked its edge and frowned. It was far from dull but there was not the sharpness she would have expected. And those notches, had they always been there? Nicked and chipped all along the blade?

So much the day had already gone and as she headed for the armoury, the sun was already beginning to sink, plunging towards the horizon with a speed she would have scarce believed. Each time she looked it seemed to have dropped further and further. Within, the armoury was a hive of activity; the general buzz of conversation drowned out by the high-pitched screech of steel on stone, the dull space illuminated by flying sparks.

Here she found Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli, not hurrying around but watching. Only watching. She followed their eyes and gasped aloud at the sight.

A line of men had formed out of one door, old and young, bent and coughing, grey and worn. They were being guided by Rohirrim towards the back wall of the armoury where they were being handed spears, axes, swords or hammers with little rhyme or reason. Some got shields, some got mail, others got helmets. Most of those who left the room wore their armour as comfortably as she would have carried a horse.

"This," She could barely believe it, "This is Théoden's army?"

"Farriers, farmers, stable boys," Aragorn sighed, "No soldiers."

Gimli's expression was a mixture of disbelief and indignation, something that would have been amusing in nearly any other place but here, "Most have seen too many winters!"

"Or too few." Legolas…she did not recognise the look in his face. Not anger, not amusement. It was something entirely different. It was fear.

"This is the way of the Rohirrim," The Ranger was investigating one of the swords piled up, waiting for a claimant, "In times of need, any who can serve must do so. It has served them well before."

"There must be another way," Nemireth was near to tears as she watched a young mousy haired boy take a helmet. By Eru's mercy, his head was practically swallowed up by it. The axe was nearly the same height of him, "It's not right."

"The alternative is worse," Aragorn placed a hand on her shoulder, "They must do what they can."

"And this is all they can do," Legolas' expression darkened, "Look at them. They're frightened. I can see it in their eyes."

All activity came to a halt as all eyes turned to the elf.

 _"And they should be!"_ His voice had risen further and his gaze bored into Aragorn's eyes, speaking in his own tongue, _"And they should be! 500 against…ten thousand?"_

 _"They have more chance defending themselves here than at Edoras-"_ The Ranger got no further.

 _"-Aragorn, they cannot win this fight!"_ He was looking to her, _"They are all going to die!"_

"Then I shall die as one of them!" Aragorn stepped up until he was mere inches from the Elf. The silence that fell in the room was suffocating, like she could barely breath, eyes flicking between the two while Gimli tensed. Aragorn stormed out.

"Let him go lad," Gimli caught Legolas' sleeve as he went to follow, "Leave him be."

Instead Legolas left through the opposite door. Now it was just Gimli and Nemireth, facing down an entire room of Rohirrim.

"He's right, isn't he?" Someone called from within the crowd, "We're all going to die."

"There's no hope," The gathered were nodding, the pessimism spreading, "We are lost."

She felt eyes on her, a need for assurance or some desire for comfort but she could give them nothing. Her own gaze fell to the floor as Gimli's shoulders sagged and he shook his head.

Keeping her head down, Nemireth took her sword back, the edge now as gleaming and polished as it had been stepping onto the Grey Haven for the first time. Sliding it back into its scabbard, she fled to the battlements.

Night had fallen, the battlements now teeming with life as Rohirrim placed piles of stones, racks of spears and axes everywhere. Shadows loomed up and danced in their torchlight while hammering now broke up the curt commands being passed up and down the walls. At the highest point, she found Legolas. He was standing with his back to her, hands resting on the cold stone as if he could see out over all the world, his cloak billowed in the wind. All the sky was covered in a thick blanket of cloud, such that it felt like even the stars had abandoned them.

"Legolas?" The question came as little more than a clearance of her throat, "Are…are you okay?"

"I apologise for my outburst, Princess." Still he would not look to her, "It was unbecoming of me to lash out as I did."

"I'm not the one you need to apologise to."

A long pause, "No."

"Legolas," She stepped closer, "It's okay to be frightened-"

"-I am a Prince of the Woodland Realm, a companion of the Fellowship. This fortress, this…kingdom, it has been rife with fear since the day I stepped across its boundaries. I had thought myself capable of resisting, but the news Aragorn brings…" He shook his head, "It was too much, and for the first time in a long time, yes, I find myself afraid."

"Death is a fairly frightening thing."

"I am a child of Ilúvatar, destined to return to the Undying Lands. It has never been death that has so concerned me."

"Then what?"

He turned to look at her for the first time and for the first time she saw pain in his eyes, etched across his face like an old and deep wound, "Loss. It has always been loss. The loss of this world, the loss of those I care about. I have felt it once before and thought I could keep it from happening again," He shook his head, "But I cannot. So that fear grows in me once again and once again I am ashamed of it. I am ashamed that it robs me of the little hope I had left."

It was instinctive, though which instinct the Princess obeyed, she could not tell. She threw her arms around the elf and drew him in for a hug. He did not react at first, and for a moment she worried that she had overreached but then his arms came around her and drew her in. She had thought she would smell flowers like she had before now it was mostly leather and dirt, a legacy of the hard path they had taken and she was sure she was no better. But for all that, it was like it had been on the banks of the Anduin, a single perfect moment in long and deep nightmare. Only after an eternity did they part, his fair features now alight with confusion.

"Then fight, Legolas Greenleaf," She said, feeling the wind suddenly pick now that she was away from him, but she felt something inside her. Not the chill of dread but a flame, a spark perhaps but she embraced it, "Fight for those you care for, trust those you have followed. Do not let them take your will with everything else."

The pain she had seen just so recently, that would be seared into her memory had gone. In its place she saw something else, a fresh determination, a hope rekindled. "If you'll excuse me, I must go."

She nodded and watched as he took the steps two at a time, head straight and stride purposeful and those he passed watched him go, his confidence a stranger to the garrison.

Now it was her turn to look out upon Helm's Deep and the mountains beyond. It looked so peaceful, so calm beyond the walls. It was hard to believe an army of ten thousand was coming for them. Ten thousand, the number had still not yet sank into her consciousness. When had Aeanor last fielded an army of ten thousand? Had it ever?

Yet Saruman had built this army, just to crush Rohan. What did Sauron have in turn? What would he bring to bear?

"Gandalf," She found herself whispering to the open air before her, "If you ever had a magic trick up your sleeve, we need it now."

Footsteps from behind, too heavy to be Legolas' but not heavy enough to be Gimli's. They were regular too, the sound of a marching soldier, not a prowling Ranger. So, she did not turn, even as the wind whipped up her hair about her face. It was a fresh air, blowing away the smell of the fortress and mud.

"I don't suppose we ever got those archers?" She asked, trying to keep her voice jovial.

"You know," The accent was most definitely Aeanorean, "With the wind in our favour, the King might actually have been telling the truth."

"Well, if the winds were to pick a side, I'd hope we have some standing."

Xiphos laughed as he leaned against the battlements beside her, staring out as she was. How long had it been since he had laughed? How long had it been since she had laughed in turn? The sound had drawn yet more attention, for this was no longer a place of laughter or had it ever been thus?

"How is Éowyn?" She managed to ask.

"Well, she's not happy at being sent to the caves but I think it's best for all parties that she's there."

"Including you?"

"Including me, certainly. The people will need her, and one extra blade on the walls will do little good."

The Princess took a deep breath, "We're going to die here. Aren't we?"

"We are."

She glanced sidelong at him, "You're my captain. Aren't you supposed to talk me out of these moods?"

"Oh sorry, your majesty. We will of course win the day. Then we shall take a flock of winged horses to the Land of Sugar to recruit the Honeycomb to fight with us."

She punched him on the arm, a gesture that hurt her more than him as knuckles brushed his plate but it felt good, just as it felt good to hear him chuckle in reply.

There was more silence between them, but it felt good, companionable. It was something she had missed in the days that had passed.

In the end, it was he who broke it, "You were right, you know."

Now she had to turn wholly to face him, the beauty of the landscape dwarfed by this revelation, "Are you sure Saruman's not controlling you now too? Did you admit that I got something right?"

"Don't get too used to it, your majesty," He grinned and all the exhaustion slipped away when he did though it returned as swiftly as his smile dropped, "But in this instance, yes. You were right and I was wrong. We could not have abandoned these people, as I wanted to."

"I was lucky it worked out in our favour…such as it has." A dark chuckle, for this had surely to be stretching the definition of 'favour' to breaking point, "I could not have known Gandalf and the others would come."

"It was a stroke of luck true, but even if they had not arrived at all, you would have been right."

"Even though we're all going to…" She could finish her sentence, voice suddenly catching, "Even with what's happening?"

"Princess, let me share something an old soldier once told me, when I was a young welp in the 5th Legion. Death will come for all of us someday, it is inevitable. A kick from a horse, a fall from a roof, a cough in the night but soldiers, soldiers are blessed. Only the soldier gets to choose his death. For the longest time, I thought he was speaking nonsense. Soldiers don't get to choose their death anymore than grass can decide when it's cut. I could have been shot by a Sand Tribe arrow, I could have been cleaved in two by a Daoine axe, I could have been stabbed, crushed or hacked down a hundred times and none of them would have been my choosing, but here, now? His words make sense to me. A soldier can choose what he believes in and when he does, he can fight for it. He can die for it."

"And what belief have you found, Captain, here of all places?"

"A people. A proud people not unlike my own. A people who deserve a second chance. One in particular," A small smile came across his features, a dreamy look, "And the person who showed me that side to them, the side I couldn't see. Someone who makes mistakes but owns them when she does. Someone who can fight and one day will find she can lead. Someone I believe can rule. Can I fight for that belief? Yes. Can I die for that belief? Absolutely."

"Oh, Xiphos," She could feel tears building in her eyes as she drew him in, arms around his shoulders. He smelt mostly of filth and horses but she did not care as tears stained his cloak.

"Now, your majesty. It does not do to make a Princess cry," He laughed as they separated and she wiped at her cheeks, nose running as she dabbed both away with a cloth, "Karos would have my head." She giggled in turn, which only drew more tears, "Now, let us go. We have a battle to prepare for."

* * *

Xiphos went ahead to inspect the troops, to make the final checks before they would ascend the wall that would be theirs to defend. In the meantime, she prepared as best she could. There was a great many dents and scratches in her plate but none seemed to have weakened the metal nor were any of the straps broken. Her sword was as keen as it had been before in the armoury and her shield, the gift of Galadriel was comfortably weighty on her other arm. The spear she found was of Rohirrim make, rougher than she would have liked, prone to shattering like a lance but it would have to do. Her cloak was ripped in places but then she would have no need for it on the battlefield tonight. Best to keep it in here, where it was safe. The coif still wrapped itself around her head nicely and made a snug fit when her helmet slide atop it. Nemireth tilted her head this way and that, getting used to the crested weight that now sat on her shoulders. A few hairs needed moving out of her view but other than that, there were no complaints. Everything moved as it needed to move, no chinks or catches. The armourers had long taken their places in the keep so she was not sure what could have been done had anything snagged but fortunately, it was not the case.

The Princess had performed this ritual a thousand times. From the first days she had donned the weighty armour of Aeanor when it had taken so long to assemble. The guards had wanted to help her but she had refused. They had needed no help and nor should she. In time; days and weeks and months, it had become easier until putting it on was as natural as sliding on a dress. She had grown accustomed to the tightness in the chest, to the gravity of every movement and every action, each limb heavier than she was accustomed to. It was a symbol, true, but it was also a bridge to times long passed. The kings of Aeanor had worn armour since the first; Caldor and Othion, Amathor and even her father had performed this task just as she performed it now. Had they felt the fear she had when checking for weaknesses? Had they felt the thrill of coming battle? Had they uttered silent prayers to Eru, to the winds, to whoever listened for victory? Where they prepared for the glory of success? For the consequences of failure? At times these questions had felt like they would crush her and at others, like they were merely the idle fantasies of a child playing soldier. Today, they were a comfort. She was not the first of her line to feel this. She would not be the last.

Beside her, Aragorn had changed from his tattered and bloodied mail into a fresh set and he looked like a man reborn, a man alight with fire, with drive. No matter how grim the odds, no matter how badly things were skewed, he would not give up. It was hard not to feel the optimism rise within her. As the Ranger slipped a dagger into the sheath at his belt, he searched for his weapon, only to find it being held by Legolas.

"We have trusted you this far and you have not led us astray." He bowed his head, "Forgive me, I was wrong to despair."

 _"There is nothing to forgive, Legolas,"_ Aragorn took the sword and the two placed their hand on the other's shoulder, the elven sign of friendship, she had long discovered. It made her smile, a moment of peace before the coming battle.

Taking a firm grip of her spear, Nemireth took a deep breath and let it escape slowly past her lips. She was ready.

Unlike some.

"If we had time, I'd get this adjusted," Gimli waddled into the armoury, holding in his arms a great bundle of mail. An extra set perhaps? Her curiosity lasted only moments before he let go and it fell to the ground as a wedding grown did at the feet of a bride. It took all her willpower then not to laugh at sight.

He looked to her as if it were the most natural thing in the world, "It's a little tight across the chest."

On the wind came the sound of a horn. Orcs? The Uruk-hai of Isengard here already?

No, she saw how Legolas turned, how his brow furrowed in confusion, "That is no orc horn!"

He and Aragorn rushed for the steps and, with an apologetic glance to Gimli, she followed.

Through the keep they ran, past assembling crowds of curious Rohirrim. A buzz was running amongst them, not the fear of the past few days but something else. Wonder? Excitement? It was hard to tell and that drove the Princess on until at last she cleared the crowds.

Assembling in the courtyard beneath the keep's stone steps were rank after rank of elves, draped in cloaks with long bows in hand, their footsteps so light that they barely made an imprint on the flagstones beneath them. How many had come? It had to be in the hundreds! The ember of hope which had crackled in the pit of her stomach now roared into life.

Watching over it all, looking as if he had seen a army of ghosts enter his fortress, was Théoden, his voice scarce above a whisper, "How is this possible?"

Facing across from him was someone she recognised. A blonde elf dressed not now in the cloaks of Lothlorien but the garb of a warrior, as proud a soldier as she had ever seen, Haldír himself.

"I bring word from Elrond of Rivendell; an alliance once existed between men and elves. Long ago we fought and died together. We have come to honour that allegiance."

As Aragorn and Legolas greeted the new arrival, the man's much more exuberant than the elf, as one they turned to face their hosts, as crisp a manoeuvre as she had ever seen on any parade ground.

"We are proud to fight alongside men once more."


	28. Chapter 27: The Battle of Helms Deep

The arrival of the elves had meant a last moment change of plan. Now it would be they, led by Haldir and Aragorn, who would man the walls for the coming battle. The Aeanoreans would take up position in the quagmire behind, ready as a reserve to either the wall or the keep, along with those elves who could not stand with their brethren. It was a less glamorous posting and a part of Nemireth, the part of her that was princess of her kingdom, did rankle at the slight but it was no longer the time to make a big deal of it. This gave them their best chance and, compared to how she had felt just an hour previously, she was more than happy to swallow her pride.

For now, she stood on the walls, Legolas to one side and Gimli to the other. Around them, the elves of Lothlorien were still, serene. She wished she knew how they did it. Were their insides twisting in knots like hers were beneath those helmets? Was it experience that calmed them? Training? Was it something that only elves could master, beyond the fingertips of a mere mortal to even grasp? How could any being of flesh and bone stand so easy with what faced them?

Out in the darkness of the young night were torches. So many torches. They went back as far as she could see and no matter how many times she prayed, they did not seem to end, more and more coming over the hills and spilling into the valley. The sound of feet upon the ground was like a constant rumble from within the earth, the walls trembling as if even they had been struck by fear. How could ten thousand be a larger number than she could have imagined? How it was it possible for there to be more?

"You could have picked a better spot."

The voice of Gimli drew her eyes down, away from that bone-chilling sight to where he had been sandwiched between one elf and another, Legolas catching Nemireth's eye as his lips curled. He was trying not to smile, but the gesture was like bursting a wineskin holding the tension and she could not help but chuckle.

A blaze of light crossed the sky followed by a great crack that felt like a whip from the heavens. She heard the _plink_ as a fat drop of water landed on her shoulder. Then another. Then another. Then the deluge began, soaking her hair through in seconds and sticking it to her armour, droplets sliding down her back and into her tunic, making it sticky and uncomfortable.

"Why?" The Princess closed her eyes, whisper coming out as a slight fog before her lips, "Of all things, why rain?"

Her questions went unanswered by mortal or otherwise as the flashes of lightning threw their enemy into stark clarity; their long spears, their broad shields, their hulking armour.

 _"Do not show them mercy!"_ Aragorn strode down the wall, his words strong, _"For you shall receive none in turn!"_

He stopped at them, watching the army of Isengard as it approached at the same slow but inevitable speed.

"Well lad, whatever luck you live by, let's hope it lasts the night." Gimli looked up at him.

Legolas nodded, "Your friends are with you, Aragorn."

The Dwarf snorted, "Let's hope they last the night."

Nemireth gave them one last smile, something she could not even hold for a heartbeat before taking a deep breath, "I should go. Good luck…I'll see you all on the other side."

"Aye, don't go dying on us yet, Lassie!" Gimli thumped her on the back, nearly knocking her forward.

Legolas took a long moment, a hesitancy she had not expected, eyes flicking as if he were looking something, an answer to some question within himself. Finally, he just nodded, barely masking a resigned, nearly pained expression, "Good luck."

Aragorn caught her as she went to leave, "Keep a sharp eye. Stay safe."

"And you," She took his shoulder as she had seen the elves do, a strange gesture but one he seemed to appreciate before she headed for the steps.

The King's Guard stood in four ranks a good distance from the wall, far enough to be out of range should any arrows come over the wall towards them. Xiphos stood with her helmet tucked under his arm, an eyebrow disappearing under his own helm as he handed it to her.

"Well, mustn't look too bad out there."

She gave him a pointed look before slipping the crested helmet over brown, sodden hair. She should have put it on beforehand, or at least a cap. Well, she was sure the discomfort would be forgotten about before too long.

Taking her spear, she saw the tip was shaking. This was it.

The rumbling stopped. Then came thumping, the sound of thousands of spears striking the earth together. An intimidation tactic. Like the cries of the Ellayan horseriders, or the hums of Daoine reavers, or even the calls of the Aeanoreans themselves, designed to intimidate and dismay.

It was working.

Then, as abruptly as it had started, it stopped. She heard a call from the wall but she could not be sure what was said over the rain. Then a booming horn from within the enemy ranks followed by a terrible roar and the pounding of charging feet. This was it.

The Elves began to loose arrow upon arrow at their foes, movements as smooth as water flowing through a font, as seamless an action as countless years training could produce. The Uruks retaliated, the harsh thunk of their crossbows contrasting to the sharp ring of elven bowstrings. Nemireth winced as she saw elves twist and fall from the wall, some thrown clean from its top by the force at which they were struck.

Then came a call she heard between two cracks of thunder, _"Pendraith!"_

Ladders.

Before she knew it, the uruk-hai were on the wall, as strong and terrible as she remembered from Isen. The archers had drawn their blades and were as graceful with these as their bows, skilled and precise. But the wall was narrow and room sparse. It was not a place for a dance but a brawl and in this tight space, the Uruks with heavy armour and iron bars as swords were taking a terrible toll of their lighter opponents, driving them from the ladders.

"Lochía!" She called to one of the sub-captains, a man she knew as Daros, "Your men to the wall!"

"Yes, your majesty! _Eascn! Anni!"_ He should have commanded a hundred men, but it was barely twenty who lifted their shields and ran for the steps, drawing swords as they went. No sooner were they on the wall than they were in combat but now the uruks had to face Aeanorean steel as well as elvish blades and they were driven back. High above, arrows rained from the keep and those parts of the wall not yet scaled. Nemireth could barely take her eyes off the fighting above her, watching as her friends cut through their attackers. They were holding! She dared not believe it but they were holding!

Then she looked, there were uruks at the grate in the lower wall.

What were they doing? Piling strange spiked containers atop one another? Supplies? Hardly medical, given uruks? Hooks and ropes? Were they planning on digging beneath the wall?

"Aragorn!" She tried to get his attention, to warn him, but there was so much noise and so much movement that he didn't see, locked in battle on the wall, trying to both command and survive.

"Lochía Nevor!" She looked over her shoulder to the second of the four sub-captains, "Get to that grate! Stop them!"

"Yes, your majesty!"

Another twenty men advanced, their steps slow and trudging as they struggled through the mud, spears lowered and shields raised. She watched intently, waiting to see if they would need reinforcements.

The world went white.

A wave hit her like a hammer, sending the Princess sailing backwards and landing hard in the frigid, wet mud with a pained grunt. Her ears were ringing, high pitched, gnawing at her brain. A roar passed over her, louder than any thunder could be.

How long she lay there, she could not tell, her sight returned slowly while every part of her body was tensed and sore. Looking up at the blackened storm clouds, she could see it was no longer water raining from above but rock, great chunks of masonry. Her mouth was bone dry and her head throbbed as if picks were being driven into her forehead. Something warm trickled down along her eye; blood.

She looked up with a groan, the mud settled around her, and scarcely believed what she saw. The wall, sturdy and stout just a moment ago, was gone.

There was nothing between her and ten thousand Uruk-hai.

The Princess looked around frantically but the formation that had stood there was gone, scattered. She could see men here and there in clusters, sheltering from the remains of their only defence as it fell upon them. Ahead, the Uruks were checked, not by strength of arms but by the rush of water, a charging force that drove them back and bought her time.

She scrambled for the whistle hung about her neck, put it to her lips and blew.

No sound came forth.

 _Oh no…_

It was filthy, doused in thick, brown mud, disgusting to both smell and taste but she tried again. A pathetic bubble welled up from the end and popped.

 _Clean it out!_

Her fingers were shaking so much. Each attempt to claw out more mud only seemed to push it further in. Still no sound would come.

A rustle of wind passed above her head, white flashes so fast she could barely see them. Arrows? The first of the uruks twisted and fell under the volley.

The uruks had passed the first line of defence, the water subsiding and they poured forth, so close. Lochía Nevor and his men had vanished.

A strong hand grabbed at her collar and she found herself rising against her will. Oh, Eru she was going to be sick.

"Now, now! We can't have our princess in the filth like us commoners!" Xiphos laughed, his voice muffled and distant, as dirty as she but eyes bright and grin broad, " _Araharné! Omáran!"_ He put his whistle to his lips and blew a shriek, loud and piercing normally but to her dull and thin.

From all directions came dazed King's Guard, capes torn and tattered, armour muddied and dented but they formed into ranks all the same. Crooked and uneven ranks but still ranks. Before them was the entire might of the Isengard.

There was only one thing to do.

 _"Herio!"_ She drew her blade and charged.

With a cry, her men followed.

The Uruk-Hai were ready for them, standing in organised rows with long spears waiting. The shield, strapped to her arm still, was glowing intensely. Those in front seemed to shy away as she hit with a cry in her throat. The first spear bounced off her shield, the second caught her shoulder but then she was amongst them, slashing frantically wherever she could reach. All around her, came the ringing of blade on shield and spear on breastplate.

The fighting dragged on. No matter how many she killed, there was another in his place, wincing at the intensity of Galadriel's gift but still launching relentless attacks upon her. To either side, her men died and those left had to step back. There were too many, too great a rush. The elves joined the fray, long and curved blades adding to the straighter wider Aeanorean weapons but they could not stem this tide. Step by step, inch by inch, they retreated.

 _"Nan barad! Nan barad!"_

It was Aragorn's voice! But she had no time to rejoice that he lived, only to hear his words. To the keep. They were conceding the wall.

The King's Guard stood where they were. They had to keep fighting. Retreat now and it would doom those on the wall, those around them. They had to hold the breach as long as they could,

She could see above as elves took flight, running for the single, narrow staircase that led to the keep, around her they retreated. Still the King's Guard stood.

Another step back. The man beside her fell under a savage blow from an Uruk sword which she swiftly avenged.

Another look. There were no elves left on the wall. Only Uruks spilling over their ladders and down the stairs.

 _"Anaharné! Chórisaran!"_ The guard tried to follow her command, tried to take an organised step back. No sooner had they done so than their enemy was there. They had no time to move. No time to breath.

"Your highness! To our flanks!" She heard Xiphos and saw the danger. The Uruk Hai were to either side of them. Any longer and they would be surrounded. "We must break!"

Panic flooded her mind. What else could she do?

"Nemireth!" It was Xiphos again, his voice louder, "Command it!"

The word left her lips so quickly she was not sure she had dared speak it, " _Tréxaran! Tréxaran!_ "

 _Run._

And with that one word, that one command, Xiphos' Company of the King's Guard, the most elite formation in all Aeanor, dissolved.

Men were in full flight, all thoughts of battle gone from their minds. The Uruk-hai were amongst them, chopping down so many trying to escape. Some faced their enemies, though through bravery or fear it was impossible to tell, they died quickly, overrun by the mass that confronted them.

Above the screams, she could hear Xiphos, "Protect the princess! Protect the princess!"

Soldiers were falling from her side as quickly as they could reach it, a disorganised cluster hacked away by their enemy. This was no longer a time for fighting but for survival and Nemireth watched as the steps drew closer, struggling through mud that now rose up to her ankles, making every step an effort worthy of the Valar. There was no sign of Aragorn, none of Legolas or Gimli or Haldir, no elves or Rohirrim occupied the deep now, only the Uruk-Hai of Isengard and the dead.

"Protect the Princess!" Still Xiphos called, "Protect-"

His voice cut out. She could not see him, only an Uruk who appeared at her back, snarling through his faceless helmet. She barely parried his attack. The steps were close but the enemy was closer.

White-tailed arrows fell amongst them. The uruk who had attacked her fell away as one embedded in his throat. Looking up, she saw the elves lined along the top of the keep, loosing shot after shot. Even with the wind, in the darkness and the seething mass of friend and foe so far beneath them, it seemed to be only uruks picked out by the archers of Lothlorien. In moments, those in pursuit were gone and the survivors charged up the stairs as quickly as they could.

Only once they had reached the top could Nemireth breath, take a second to understand what had happened. There was no sign of Xiphos, no sign of so many. Her breath was loud in her own ears, head pounding worse than ever. It felt like a bad dream, stomach rolling and churning.

"Princess," Legolas grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around, "Princess, we have to go!"

"To go…" She repeated the words without truly understanding them. Her head was swimming. Had his voice always been so muted?

"We have to fall back!" He was all but shouting in her face, holding her firmly, "The gate is about to be breached! Aragorn and Gimli bought us some time but not much! We need to reach the hall now!"

Another voice shouted above the others, "Fall back! Fall back!"

Legolas was all but dragging her now, elves and Aeanoreans running once again. Were there always so few? It seemed there had been more before the battle. Would she call it a battle? Little more like a stumbling block. Even with all her pessimism she not thought it would end so quickly. Had there ever been any hope?

Through the keep they ran until they were in the main hall, the door sealed and barricaded behind them. In the dim light of the hallway, she could see just how few were left. Barely enough for the hall, frightened and exhausted faces stood out to her everywhere.

"Quickly! Take the benches!" Aragorn ran from man to man, gentle with some and all but throwing others, "Barricade the door! They'll be coming!"

"The fortress is taken! It is over!" Théoden was being tended to by one of his aides, wrapping bandages around his shoulder. He had been wounded? There was blood on his armour. His own?

Speaking of blood. Only now did she remove her helmet and gasped at what she saw. A slice of rock sharp as any spear had buried itself in her helm, just above her eye, splitting the metal with a jagged edge. Still blood trickled down her face and she wiped it away with a sleeve. Without the helmet she would not have been alive.

Xiphos.

She could not see him. But he had to be here. Maybe he was wounded, amongst those being sent down into the caves. That was it. He had to have been injured. A lump formed in her throat at her own thoughts.

"You said this fortress would never fall while your men defended it! They still defend it! They have died defending it!" Aragorn's insistence, his fierceness shone out all the brighter in this, the darkest of moments but she could not bring herself to feel his hope. Théoden was right. The Battle of Helm's Deep had been lost.

"Is there another way out of the caves for the women and children?"

Silence. Théoden's aides looked amongst one another, faces like those of ghouls.

"Is there no other way?"

"There is one," Hama exhaled, "It leads into the mountains. But they will not get far, the Uruk-hai are too many!"

"Send for the women and children to make for the mountain pass, and barricade the entrance!"

"So much death…" Théoden was not looking at them but off into the far distance, locked in his own little world, "What can men do against such relentless hate?"

"Ride out with me" Aragorn said, "Ride out and meet them."

"For death and glory," It was so simple an idea, so foolish and yet Théoden's face lit up at the mere idea, "For Rohan."

"For your people."

The first light was starting to creep through the high windows of the hall and suddenly, not all was dark. When had she last looked upon a dawn as she did now? Had she ever? Likely she never would again.

"My lord," Hama coughed sheepishly, "If we ride, the doors to the caves will be exposed. They'll be vulnerable."

"We'll hold them," Nemireth heard her own voice as if it belonged to a stranger. Suddenly all were looking at her, "We'll hold the doors. For as long as we are able."

Théoden approached her, with an expression somewhere between pity and joy. He placed a firm hand on her shoulder, "Rohan is thankful that Aeanor was here to stand with us, Princess Nemireth. Here, at the end."

She nodded, feeling tears well up in her ears, "Fight hard, Théoden King, and die well."

"Die well…yes," He turned away, back now longer bowed, head no longer down, "Yes! The horn of Helm Hammerhand shall sound in the deep! One last time!"

Those who could mount horses did so. Those who could not went with Nemireth into the second hall. It was a small force; those who remained of the elves, the Rohirrim and her own men. There had been a hundred and fifty King's Guard when the battle had started, now she counted only thirty. Aragorn had stayed with Théoden; he would ride out beside him. It was a fitting end, the kings of Gondor and Rohan dying in the field together. Gimli had gone to blow the great horn atop the keep, the bellow that would herald Rohan's last stand. Legolas, he had chosen to stay with her and with his kin.

So now here they were, a tiny force with their backs to the doors leading down into the caves. Behind she could hear banging and thumping as they were barricaded by those within. Ahead, the doors between halls had also been propped with a few benches and bars, all that was left. There was nowhere else to go, nowhere to retreat to.

So she settled into the shield wall, Aeanorean and Rohirrim together, elves behind with bows drawn. Ahead they heard a crashing and splintering of wood as the door to the great hall gave way, then a muffled cheer and galloping hooves as the defenders began their final charge. As the sound of ringing metal and Uruk roars came from beyond, slowing fading, she tried not to think of what would follow, Aragorn lying dead amongst the horses and guards of Théoden King.

As they faded away, all that could be heard was the breathing of those left. All who stood between the people of Rohan and the Uruk-hai of Saruman. It still didn't feel real.

"So, this is how it ends." Legolas spoke quietly to her.

"I guess so," She tried to offer a smile but could not bring herself to do so, "I hope you've still some fight left."

"More than enough," There was scrambling beyond the door, heavy footsteps carrying something heavy, "There is something I…need to tell you."

"I guess it can't wait," She was not looking at him, only watching the broad wooden door behind which waited her end.

"When I said I fear to lose those I care for, I was only partially speaking the truth."

 _Thump!_ The door jarred and settled back in place. A few of the benches fell away.

"There are those I care for and there those who I…who I love…"

 _Thump!_ The door groaned.

She looked at him. He did not look away.

 _Thump._ The door bowed inwards before settling back.

They touched foreheads and embraced. She held him close, a moment of beauty in such darkness.

 _Thump!_ Part of the door fell away, beyond swarmed the armies of Isengard.

She could feel the eyes on hem, but no longer did she feel dulled, drowning in her own despair. Looking around at the haggard, drawn and frightened faces of whose left whom she commanded, she found her voice, "We are all of us soldiers, and we now have a choice, a privilege!"

 _Thump!_ The door sagged.

"Few get to die for something pure, something beautiful!"

 _Thump!_ It was now hanging off its hinges.

"Behind us, is the spirit of Rohan, it's soul! Every Uruk-hai you kill, every second you live, gives that spirit a chance to live!"

 _Thump!_ The last bar across the door splintered.

"We are soldiers of the Blue City! Of the Golden Wood! Of the Mark!"

 _Crash!_ The door gave way.

"We stand as one!" Nemireth settled behind her shield, sword levelled and ready.

"We stand together!" The answer came as a roar, loud and defiant. The shield wall rose ready and arrows were loosed into the flood of Uruk-hai that stormed through.

The Uruk-Hai fell upon them, but the wall held. Each defender, man and elf, fought desperately with spear, with bow and with sword. Nemireth's arms were heavy, her breath ragged in her chest but still she slashed and hacked, shield glowing in the dim morning light. The Aeanorean beside her fell, too tired and too slow to raise his shield. Legolas stepped into the gap beside him, dual daggers swirling as he parried and sliced his foe before him. If they were going to die, then they'd die together. Side by side.

Even in all the chaos, all the death, all the loss, her heart lifted a little. He loved her!

A horn blew beyond the door.

It was no orc horn.

And just that like, they were alone. The Uruk-Hai broke off and charged back to the door from whence they had come. No one moved, breathing hard but holding formation. It had to be a trick. They were on the cusp of victory, why would they retreat? They had to be regrouping, preparing for a second attack.

"My lady?" One of the Rohirrim looked to her.

"Hold position," She sighed, "Stand your ground."

Could she hear swords ringing? The calls of men? She couldn't. It had to be her imagination, some part that still hoped for salvation. The rising sun funnelled through the door to illuminate the defenders of the final door.

The clopping of a horse, Aragorn?

Not even by Eru's will could he have survived the charge.

A shape blocked out the sun, mounted atop a brown stead. She steadied herself, refusing to believe, refusing to hope.

"Nemireth," Aragorn said it softly, "We have victory."

"How?" She croaked. Her mouth was bone dry, lips cracked.

Two more figures rode up to him; one wearing the green cloak of the Rohirrim and a long horsehair-crested helmet, the other clad all in white, staff in hand. Éomer and Gandalf.

They had won.


	29. Chapter 28: The Price of Victory

Nemireth had grown up with stories of war.

She had laid in bed for hours with yellowed and dogeared pages lit only by a slowly fading candle, greedily consuming every tale, every tome. The chittering crickets had been her only company, until the roosters had called at the breaking of dawn and yet it never stopped her reading.

She had read of the War of the Last Alliance, where Sauron had been vanquished from Middle Earth by the great heroes of elves and men. She had read so many stories of war in kingdom's history; the Brother's War, when Archion II had murdered his older brother only to be killed in turn by his younger, or the Darkest Night, when Minas Luin itself was besieged by orcs and only liberated by the Ellayan tribesmen riding to the rescue of their queen's love. That was what she had taken from them, they were stories of love, glory, revenge, defeat and ultimately triumph.

None of the stories had ever mentioned this part.

She stood in the shadow of the Deeping wall, or at least what remained of it, boots still sinking into the mud. That was all that felt familiar to her though, for in front of her, the great gap that had been blown open by Saruman's wizardry, like it had been torn out by a giant's hand. Beyond, the Uruk-hai army that she had laid eyes on just that night, the one that had come to see an end to the land of Rohan was no more. She could feel no joy at the sight, none of the triumph she had felt when reading her books, for instead she was standing amongst the cost of that victory.

The ground was strewn with elves and men, with the living now moving amongst the dead sombrely. Most were Éomer's men, the defenders happy to take the chance to rest and find comfort with their loved ones within the caves. Half of the families within would not have that chance and already she was sure she could hear the wails of grief on the wind, though perhaps that was the spirits of the Ellayans weeping for the fallen of Aeanor.

Xiphos' company had come to Rohan with four hundred men. Four hundred of the King's Guard had ridden into Edoras just a few weeks ago. They had withstood the ferocity of their enemy, the hostility of their hosts and the ineptitude of their defence. They had ridden to the Ford of Isen only to be ambushed and forced to retreat. They had marched to Helms Deep and there they had held the breach in the impenetrable wall until it could be held no more. Four hundred men.

Now, only twenty remained. Ten survivors of the hundred and fifty from the battle before and ten who had been too wounded to take part.

They were helping the Rohirrim and surviving elves line up their dead, so many felled by blows from behind, victims of the chaotic rout that she had called.

Nemireth heard her name called, Amathor stood close to the steps, bandages still wrapped tightly about his shoulder. It took only a quick glance at his expression to know who he had found.

Xiphos lay surrounded by the fallen of his company, the men he had so effortlessly led. He could have been asleep, eyes closed gently just beneath his helm, no sign of the wound that had killed him. His skin was pale, so much paler than she remembered it. It looked like his lips were curled up at the corners, as if he were still mocking her even in death.

"I am so sorry, your majesty," Amathor solemnly handed her the two tokens he had worn about his neck. One was a small bronze feather, the symbol of a King's Guard. The other she saw was a little horseshoe, carved of wood.

The Princess dropped to her knees beside him, uncaring of the mud mixed with blood, uncaring if Amathor or anyone else watched her. She took his hand in hers; rough, calloused and cold. It felt like the coldness was seeping through her skin, seizing at her insides and leaving her numb. Nemireth placed the tokens back in his hand and carefully closed his fingers around them, lowering her head to touch the tip of his helm.

The tears came then. She couldn't stop them, didn't want to stop them. Grief washed over her like waves crashing against a dingy; swamped, overwhelmed.

"Nemireth…"

The voice was gentle, recognisable, but she didn't look up. It could have been Sauron for all she cared.

"Nemireth, stand up."

No response.

Hands took her by her shoulders and she felt herself pulled softly to her feet. The Princess allowed her too be handled, limp as a new born pup before she found the strength to lock her knees. When she looked, she saw it was Legolas who had lifted her, features blurred and concern in his whispers, "Be strong, Nemireth. Be strong for them, be strong for him."

With a sniff, she nodded and wiped at her eyes with a muddy sleeve. He was right. Xiphos would not have tolerated her lying and sobbing like some court-bound maiden. She was a soldier of the Blue City. She was the Captain-Commander of the King's Guard. She would be strong. For them. For him.

Vision cleared, she saw that Gimli stood beside him, axe held over his shoulder. What grabbed her attention though was Legolas, the pain hidden behind his mask.

"I'm alright," She had never felt less alright in all her life but Gimli's look, one of pity and worry, convinced her to declare as such, "I'm alright."

"We've been sent to get ye, lassie," Gimli reached out and patted her arm, an awkward gesture but she appreciated what he was trying to do and offered him an empty smile in turn, "Gandalf wants a word with us."

She looked between the two of them, smile weakening, "I…I can't. I should…stay here…" Her voice was thin and tired, hoarse from shouting and screaming.

"We can keep working, your majesty," Amathor had retreated a respectful distance but now stepped up again, "It's not a problem."

The Princess was given no chance to argue further, Legolas taking her in hand and gently steering her towards the keep, where the horses were kept.

Up the stairs she went, half walking and half-limping, supported by Legolas, eyes downcast and heavy already, now sore and puffy as well. Legolas' words echoed in her mind. Be strong…

She just couldn't find it. All she wanted to do was lie down and hide.

The keep itself had been cleared and a few people had been allowed out of the caves, mostly tending to the wounded or preparing food for the fort's many occupants. That would mean…

"Nemireth?"

She heard Éowyn's voice before she saw her and when she looked up, she saw that the maiden's face was alight with hope, hair blowing in the breeze. It was the hope that struck at her heart harder than any uruk-hai ever could. The optimism, the blind belief. Slowly, that hope faded as their eyes met. The Princess of Aeanor could not find any words. Instead, she pushed away from Legolas and took Éowyn in her arms. She felt the princess of Rohan sag against her and suddenly it was she who was having to support the Rohirrim lady. She could feel her body shaking gently in her grip and in turn, Nemireth's eyes were stung with further tears. How long they spent in shared grief she could not tell, but then she felt Gimli tap her gently on the elbow.

"I'm sorry lassie, this can't wait."

"Of course," With the greatest reluctant she parted from Éowyn, able to see how her eyes had reddened and the light had left her cheeks, just as it had when Théodred had passed. Even through her own misery, she felt a stab of pity. How much more loss would the poor girl have to suffer?

"I'll stay with her, don't you worry." Gimli was as good as his word, taking Éowyn and steering her by the elbow into the keep. Quite what form dwarven consolation would take, she dreaded to think but it was better than her being alone.

Now it was just she and Legolas, the princess of Blue City and the heir to the woodland realm. No longer did she need his support to walk, but still she stayed close to him and he did not push her away. The awkwardness grew between them and she knew she should say something, but she just could not summon the effort nor the energy to do so. He seemed to understand the same, for he did not speak but instead just pulled her closer to him. All he did was whisper into her ear, "I am sorry."

She just nodded numbly. He squeezed her tighter to him. She welcomed the contact, the warmth until they reached the horses and, only with the greatest reluctance, they parted. Súletal was waiting for her, watching as she approached with intelligent and baleful eyes, pawing at the ground before her with head bowed. It was all she could to pat his flank as she lifted herself into the saddle, and Legolas had mounted his own stead.

There were far fewer of the Rohirrim out before the Hornburg but it was here the enemy lay thickest. So many lay on their fronts, clearly cut down as they had. It gave her a sick pleasure to see to many had fallen in that manner, hewn down by the Rohirrim as they had reclaimed the field from the army of Saruman. Gandalf sat atop Shadowfax with Aragorn and Haldir to one side, and Théoden and Éomer to the other. The king was a far cry from when she had last seen him, flushed with victory rather than in the pits of despair. She met Aragorn's eyes only briefly and he gave her a small nod in turn.

"…Sauron's wrath will be terrible," Gandalf was saying. Ahead of them, in the distance were flashes of orange lightning against a black storm cloud. Mordor, "His retribution will be swift."

There was more to come. Nemireth exhaled deeply, eyes closed as she looked to the heavens as the wind whipped against her face. It brought with it fresh resolve, a new spark of fire within her belly. Xiphos, Théodred, all of her men, all of those elves and Rohirrim who had died. Their deaths would not be in vain. She would not let it be so.

"The battle for Helm's Deep is over," Gandalf leant against his saddle, staff in hand, "The battle for Middle Earth is about to begin."

* * *

 **AN:** And so ends the Two Towers! My initial thoughts on this fic were based in Rohan so it was a real joy to write! Sorry that it took so long sometimes between chapters but when the block hits, there's not much else to do.

A big thank you to everyone who's stuck with me so far! I can't promise there won't be more gaps but I will do my best!

As Gandalf himself said, the Battle of Middle Earth is about to begin! On to the Return of the King!


	30. Chapter 29: Isengard

"So, laddie, you mean to tell me that the trees just…walked here?"

"The trees of Fangorn are ancient," Legolas looked around in wonderment as the small mounted party made its way through the forest, a forest that seemed to stretched from the Fords of Isen to the edges of the world, "They were here long before the coming of elves or dwarves or men or orcs. There is a magic here beyond the comprehension of any who walk these lands and claim them as their own."

It felt like a normal forest to Nemireth. There were trees in every direction, so many different types that it was impossible to count them all, even had she known their names. She could hear birdsong, the chittering of small animals as they scuttled from branch to branch with beams of light both thick and thin penetrating the canopy to bath root and trunk in a weak, buttery light. It could have sat here for an eternity, the narrow trail down which they rode in pairs travelled by the men and elves of the First Age, yet according to Legolas, it had been here for a mere few days, if even that since they had settled in place. The Princess did not much mind. Anywhere that was far from Helm's Deep was for her a welcome relief, even if it had meant passing the Fords of Isen, where Théodred had fallen, where the defence of Rohan had become all but impossible, where all roads had led to that cursed deep.

"But they just…walked here. Trees. Walking."

"I have heard of the stone giants that move in the storms, my friend. Is it any less fantastic that mountainsides should come alive to do battle in the higher parts of the world?"

"Well," Gimli spluttered, "Stone giants are of course very believable but this? Moving trees? Laid siege to Isengard have they?"

"No, Master Gimli," Gandalf called from the front where he rode with Aragorn and Théoden both, "But they are in service to those whom have done so!"

"Ah of course," The Dwarf nodded from his place sharing a mount with Legolas, "The lord of trees!"

"He would not use the title himself," Gandalf muttered, "Though it would be within his rights to do so."

"I am looking forward to this now," Gimli announced, though his expression told otherwise, "A chance to meet with the lord of all trees. One can only imagine all that they talk about!"

"So you accept the trees talk, Gimli?" Nemireth asked from alongside him. A bandage was wrapped tightly around her forehead to protect the stitchwork Aragorn had performed in the aftermath of the battle. The wound had been deep, the Ranger had claimed, though she was fortunate it had not been deeper and that she was still here to speak of it. He had also warned her that her head would hurt for some time after, though he had not warned that it would be as if some great bell were loudly announcing noon between her ears, "But you cannot accept that they walk?"

"Aye lassie, when we were in Fangorn before, in pursuit of the young hobbits. I heard them speak for myself."

"What were they speaking of?"

The dwarf had to think on that, "I cannot say I know. According to this one," He nodded to Legolas, "It was the elves who taught them, so I doubt it was anything of importance."

She laughed and even Legolas had a chuckle though he glancing to her out of the side of his vision. He had been watching her for a while, ever since they had departed Helms Deep, ever since the ceremony…

* * *

It had taken some time to gather the dead together.

The Elves and Rohirrim would be buried as was their tradition, laid out in a great mound not far from the Keep they had given their lives to defend. For the Aeanoreans however, their customs would be honoured first. Already a great pyre had been constructed within a small depression out of view of the fortress, using only dead wood as Gandalf had instructed, for to do otherwise would be folly. So, gathering enough wood had taken longer than expected but now here they were, laid out in their cloaks and tunics with wooden swords resting in their cold hands. Some fingers had been closed around the hafts of their weapons, she noted with approval. Even in death, they stood ready to do to their duty.

There were only twenty Kings Guard lined up, so few to say goodbye to so many. They had cleaned down their armour as best they could, they had found spears to replace those they had lost in battle. Their cloaks were tattered and muddied, so they had been discarded. It was not proper procedure, but then nothing about this battle had been proper.

The rain had began falling then, not the heavy deluge of the battle but slight and gentle drops as if even the earth itself were crying. Nemireth could feel it running through her hair, down her cheeks and into the tunic beneath her armour but she did not care. She held in her hand a torch that now hissed softly as the rainwater fell upon it.

She didn't want to say goodbye.

He was lying there, fingers folded around his wooden blade, eyes closed lightly and that same gentle smile playing on his lips. Even here, lying amongst his men devoid of the plate that had been his life, he looked so authoritative, so in control. The smell of damp foliage and cedar oil was intense in her nose even as her eyes began to sting.

 _Be strong._

She looked around to her men and saw that they were looking to her. They had lost friends, brothers, comrades. They had come across the Great Sea together, marched together and died together. What she felt, she knew they felt. They needed her now, more than ever.

 _Be strong for them._

She heard footsteps.

It sounded like an approaching army and when she looked up, she found that all around the edges, the depression had been surrounded by people. Soldiers and civilians, women and children, men and elves. Immediately she spotted the form of Legolas, standing alongside the king, the white of Gandalf, Aragorn and Gimli.

No one spoke, but those who wore hat or helm removed them, heads bowed in grief. Even with their discipline, the King's Guard could not help but look up and around at the crowd. It felt like the entirety of Rohan was here.

She locked eyes with Gandalf. The wizard nodded.

With a deep sigh to steady herself, she began to speak and tears flowed anew.

 _"Heledron, Father of Winds._

 _Take the souls of the dead._

 _Let them dance beyond the world._

 _Never to know hunger, pain or loss."_

Her voice broke part way through, but she took a deep breath and continued. She would finish this.

 _"Be our light in the darkness._

 _To the end of the world."_

The wind blew gently as she placed the torch into the dried kindling in the centre. It caught immediately and began to spread amongst the dead, engulfing them in a blinding light. Xiphos, in the centre of the formation, vanished from view.

"Eru," She whispered it, gaze rolling to the sky before she closed her eyes, "Stand with us."

"We stand together." It was not twenty men who responded but a ripple that went around all those who watched. Three words. Men, Elves, Dwarves, Wizards. Kings and commoners. Native and foreigner. They would stand together.

The crowd dispersed, but Nemireth remained. Someone had to guard the pyre. She opened her eyes.

Her men had remained.

"You don't need to stay," She looked each in the eye and saw only determination there, a fierceness, "I will perform the watch."

"We stand together, your highness." Amathor thumped his spear upon the ground. The others murmured in agreement.

In that moment, when she had never felt so low, her spirits rose as she bowed her head, "…thank you."

And there they stood, keeping guard over the fallen as the grey smoke rose into the sky and was carried away by the wind.

* * *

The Princess shook herself out of her reverie and saw that Legolas was still watching her, face alight with concern.

"Nemireth?"

"I'm fine, really. You need not be concerned," She give him an encouraging smile as a creaking filled the forest, the sound of wood stressing and cracking, "Is that the trees moving?"

"That's them speaking, lassie! Just like in Fangorn!"

"Do you suppose they're discussing us?"

"Can't see what else there'd be to discuss," Gimli muttered, "Can't be an exciting life being a tree."

"Oh, I don't know," She pointed to one nearby, "Maybe that one is the princess of the forest and she's fallen in love with that one there," She pointed to a particularly large and vibrant tree, "But her father, the king of the forest," It took a moment but she found one, a short and bulbous tree similar to the 'princess' she had pointed to, "Does not wish them to be together, as he is from a different tribe of trees than she. Then there's the jealous count of the forest, there," A particularly ugly and worn down tree served her purpose, "He desires the princess for himself, and so he is working with the king to separate them…"

She finally looked back to the party to see not only were Legolas and Gimli watching her but now Aragorn and Gandalf had turned in their saddles and were listening to her tale. With a burning feeling growing in her cheeks, she lowered her hand back to the reins, "Or maybe they're just talking about squirrel droppings, I don't know." She muttered under her breath.

The wizard shook his head as the trees at last began to thin, giving way to a wall that may once have been daunting but instead now lay broken, with massive boulders dotting the empty space between fortress and trees. Even from here, it was possible to see the peak of the mighty tower that sat in the centre of the compound, now more akin to a lake than a fortress.

What took her attention first though, were the two small figures who sat atop the ruins of the wall, puffing on pipes as if relaxing by a warm fire with their feet up.

"Ah!" The taller stood up, "Welcome, my lords-"

"-and lady."

"Yes, thank you Pip, and lady, to Isengard!" Merry threw his arms wide, a mug of ale in one and a pipe in the other. Nemireth could not help but smile to see them safe.

"You young rascals!" Gimli was all but hopping in his seat, a fine chase you've lead us on! And now we find you here feasting. And smoking!"

"We are sitting, on a field of victory, enjoying some well-earned comforts," Pippin held his mug in a cheers to the dwarf, who only grew more indignant, "The salted pork, is particularly good."

"…salted pork?" The anger disappeared from Gimli's voice immediately, replaced by fresh hope.

Gandalf shook his head with a muttered, "hobbits."

"We're under orders," Merry explained, as brightly as he had ever been, a ray of light in otherwise dark times, "To lead you fine gentlemen-"

"-and lady."

"Yes, yes, Pip, and lady, to meet with Treebeard, who has taken over management of Isengard."

So the hobbits joined their party once more. Merry shared a saddle with Gandalf and then Pippin joined Nemireth atop Súletal. Twisting around, the Princess threw her arm around the hobbit and brought him into a hug. He smelt strongly of pipeweed and of fine spices, evidence of how he had been enjoying himself. He seemed a little taken aback at first but he hurriedly returned the gesture.

"I'm glad you're well, Princess," He said, cheeks colouring.

"And I, you." She beamed, "Sounds like you've had some adventure."

"Oh we have," He nodded keenly, curls bouncing, "I must tell you all about it! Then you can tell us of your adventure!"

Her smile faltered but only for a moment, "I look forward to it."

Onwards they rode, into the pool of water in which stood mighty figures. They looked at first as trees, only with long and slender limbs and moving slowly, deliberately, heads turning to watch the small party approach.

"Bless my beard," Gimli's mouth fell open at the sight.

"The lord of trees, Gimli," Nemireth whispered under her breath.

"Aaah," The figure they had approached, with a long beard of reeds and moss, a broad nose and ancient, yellow eyes, though his voice was low, rumbling a slow, "Young Master Gandalf. I'm glad you've come. Wood and water, rock and stone I can master, but there is a wizard to manage here."

There was no sign from the tower, but Gandalf did not move.

"Should we announce ourselves?" Nemireth asked.

"He knows we're here. He will show himself in time. Be careful when he appears, for even in defeat, Saruman is still dangerous."

"Then let's have his head and be done with it!" Gimli suggested airily.

"No!" Gandalf threw a look to the dwarf, "We need him alive. We need him to talk."

Then, from the highest balcony came a voice, deep and commanding. So far away and yet so clear as to make Nemireth's skin crawl, "You have fought many wars and slain many men, Théoden King, and made peace afterwards. Can we not take council together as we once did? Can we not have peace again?"

"We shall have peace," Théoden's words were soft-spoken, barely above a whisper. Nemireth had to watch to see a dreamy look had crossed his greyed features, only to be replaced in a flash by a hard look, "When you answer for the burning of the Westfold and the children that lie dead there! We shall have peace when the lives of the soldiers whose bodies were hewn even as they lay against the gates of the Hornburg are avenged! When you hang from a gibbet for the sport of your own crows, then we shall have peace!"

"Gibbets and crows?" Saruman ranted and raged, his voice greater and louder still, such that Nemireth's skin crawled to hear it. Gandalf trotted forward, so that he sat alone, "Who are you to lecture me, Théoden Horsemaster? What is the Kingdom of Rohan but a thatched barn where the children roll about on the floor with the dogs? Victory at Helms Deep does not belong to you, a lesser heir of greater kings!"

Suddenly, she felt eyes burning into her, even from so far away and his voice became sweet, "What do you say of this, Nemireth of Aeanor? Ever has your kingdom stood for honour and justice. Why not shall we parlay? Why allow this fool to impede our friendship?"

She closed her eyes tight and all she could see was Xiphos, vanishing into the fire. All she could see was her men hacked down as they fled. Tears again stung at her eyes. A small hand took hold of her shoulder and gripped, "There can be no peace, Saruman," She whispered, not caring if he could hear her, "Not for what you've done."

"So be it," He snarled and she jumped, for it was if he was standing beside her, "If there shall not be peace, then there shall be death!"

Something streaked down from the top of the tower and before she could really act, a ball of fire had engulfed Gandalf. The party cried aloud, horses rearing as the wizard disappeared from view. No, not him too. Not again.

The fire abated. And still Gandalf stood.

"Saruman!" Now his own voice grew, louder than Saruman's but softer, not so harsh in her ears, "Your staff is broken."

A cry came from above and it looked as though the wizard had fallen to his knees.

"Now," Gandalf continued, "Your treachery has already cost many lives. Countless more are at risk, but you can save them Saruman! You can make amends for your actions! You were deep in the enemy's council. Tell us what you know!"

"So you have come here for information. I have some for you. Something festers in the heart of Middle Earth. Something that you have failed to see. But the great eye has seen it! Even now he presses his advantage. His attack will come soon. You are all going to die! But you know this don't you Gandalf? You cannot think that this Ranger will ever sit upon the throne of Gondor." His eye had turned to Aragorn, and the distain in his voice brought a snarl from the Princess, "This exile, crept from the shadows will never be crowned King. Gandalf does not hesitate to sacrifice those who are closest to him, those he professes to love! Tell me, what words of comfort did you give the Halfling before you sent him to his doom? The path that you have set him on can only lead to death."

"I've heard enough of this!" Gimli nudged at the elf before him, "Legolas! Put an arrow in his gob!"

"No!" Legolas had already drawn his arrow but at Gandalf's word, he waited, "Come down, Saruman. Let us talk as we once did."

"I will only come down if you withdraw your guard, I will not be held prisoner he-" He cried out in pain, making Nemireth wince as a shape had appeared behind him and taken hold of him. Legolas loosed at the shape, which fell back but it was already too late. With a single twist, the wizard fell from his balcony and landed atop one of his own wheels, cut through the centre and impaled. She felt Merry flinch behind her, but the Princess herself only watched him. A just end for an unjust being.

"The filth of Saruman is washing away," Treebeard seemed delighted by the death he had witnessed, while Pippin dismounted Gandalf's horse. To check the body perhaps? No. He had seen something in the water, an orb that shone as bright as mithril in the sun. Had it always been there?

"Peregrin Took," Gandalf leant down, "I'll take that."

With some reluctance, the hobbit surrendered it and Gandalf wrapped it before looking around at those who had assembled, "Send word to all our allies, and to every corner of Middle Earth that still stands free. The enemy's attack is coming, we need to know where he will strike and when!"

The poison of Saruman had been cleansed from this place, but Sauron's worst had yet to come.


	31. Chapter 30: Hail the Victorious Dead

The ride to Edoras was a subdued one for the most part, all those in the party were consumed with their own thoughts and digesting the meeting with Saruman. The news had been alarming, the idea that the enemy had found some advantage to exploit, 'something festering' as the traitorous wizard had put it. Gandalf did not speak at all for the entirety of the return journey and those around him knew it better to give him silence in order to think, to find what the flaw in their defence could be.

Well, most people knew better.

"-and that was when we met Treebeard, you saw Treebeard, he was the fellow with the big beard who went bah-rum a lot, loves mice and poetry though between you and me he could work a little on the length because I'm pretty sure he was well into his twentieth verse by the time Merry and I fell asleep but he was still going when we awoke! Of course he could have stopped but he doesn't seem the type to-"

"Pippin," Nemireth nudged the hobbit gently with her elbow and nodded to Gandalf.

"Oh, right," he fell quiet, but alas, Pippin was not one to let a silence hang long, "What's he thinking about?"

"I can't say," She turned in her saddle to regard her passenger. He looked so young, so fresh-faced…it was hard to grasp that he was indeed older than her by some years, "I suspect it's something of great importance."

"Could be," He nodded, "Or he could be thinking of his pipe. Have you ever seen Gandalf blow shapes with his pipe-smoke?"

"I…have not," His answer had taken her completely by surprise.

"Oh, it's amazing! Dragons, ships, birds, he can create them all just with a puff of his cheeks!" His voice was growing in strength again, "Once he created two dragons and had them fight!"

"Pippin," Another jerk of the head towards Gandalf, who now they both noticed was regarding them over his shoulder with narrowed eyes.

"Oh yeah, sorry," He seemed to shrink a little until the wizard had looked away, voice falling to a whisper, "It's just, I've not been home in such a long time. It helps when I think of such happy times. Don't you think of home, Princess? You must have many happy memories you can dwell on in the quiet and darker hours."

"I do," She looked him in the eye, those ever eager, innocent eyes and she smiled before looking away, "But it's quite hard to recall them at the moment."

So it was in silence that they rode the rest of the way, past Erkenbrand's garrison and the battlefield on which Théodred had fallen and down the same road the joint Rohirrim and Aeanorean Army had retreated following that victory. It was not long before Edoras burst over the horizon and loomed over them, untouched from when they had last left it. Aragorn had spoken the truth of Saruman's army; there really had been no focus other than the destruction of Rohan's people, for the capital had been bypassed entirely. Now it was being reoccupied by those very same people, the trail of returning inhabitants stretching over the horizon, watched every step of the way by Éomer's men.

As they approached the Golden Hall, it was impossible not to see the figure of Éowyn awaiting at the top of the steps though Théoden quickly took her aside, speaking in low whispers. The hall itself, far from the dark and cold space she remembered, was now bustling with activity as preparations were made for a feast that evening, fires roaring in every hearth. They were not given much time to enjoy it, the Fellowship being bustled out and shown to their rooms to prepare, one for each of them and a shared space for the two hobbits. Nemireth was more than happy to say her goodbyes to her friends, finding her door guarded by two members of her Guard who lowered their heads at her presence.

The Princess returned the gesture, declined the offer of ladies-in-waiting from her accompanying servant and promptly closed the door, giving herself a moment by herself at last. She was not sure for how long she just stood in the centre of the simple space, just taking a moment to exist, to breath. There was only so long she could manage it before those thoughts began to creep back, the sounds and smells of battle, the feelings of loss and pain so she hurriedly moved on.

A basin had been provided for her, filled with what had likely been hot water when it had been placed but had gone lukewarm by the time she went to use it. Washing her hair took an age, the Princess wincing more than once as she worked out the thick, black, claggy lumps had been there for only Eru knew how long, gasping a few times as she touched at the wound on her forehead or pulled a bit too hard at her roots. Eventually, she lost patience, took a pair of convenient shears and just cutting anything lower than her shoulders away. Even then, she thrice she had to request fresh water as the basin become home to a thick, foul-smelling soup, the accumulated filth from weeks of battle, marching and sleeping in the field. Persistence eventually paid off and her hair was restored to its natural brown. It was then on to scrubbing off the layers of filth from her skin. Her ladies-in-waiting back in Minas Luin would have had a fit had they seen her now, hair clean but unkempt, clothes torn and tattered. They would have clucked their tongues and set about her like a hunting pack, making sure every detail of her appearance was perfect. That felt like a world away, a life ago.

A long and flowing green dress had been provided, simple in design but elegant all the same with long sleeves and a tight fit around the hips along with an apology note from Éowyn, apparently all they had available in the scramble to return to Edoras. It was a shame, as she did so loathe dresses but the alternative was her filthy and muddy tunic so she made do and tied what remained of her hair into a ponytail with a leather strap left for just that purpose. After checking that she was presentable in the provided hand mirror to ensure she had not missed anything, she set off for the feast.

When she had first entered this hall, it had been empty and devoid of any sort of hope. Now it was filled with people, every space on every bench occupied by the Rohirrim; rich and poor, men and women with eyes watching the throne. There Théoden stood, with Éomer to one side and Éowyn the other. A few turned to regard her as she entered and the Princess scurried to where the others were sitting, dressed in finer clothing than she had seen Rivendell and sat herself down between Aragorn and Legolas. She made eyes with Éowyn and there was a mouthed "sorry" to her.

Théoden stood and all conversation fell away at once. He rose his cup solemnly and the audience before him rose, tankards in hand, "Tonight, we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country," A moment's pause, "Hail the victorious dead!"

"Hail!" Those in the hall drank deeply of their tankards and Nemireth went to do the same. The beer within was as strong as she remembered, no less vile than it had been when she had sat in the Golden Sow, with Théodred and Xiphos, discussing the plans for the coming campaign. The thought of both them stung and the Princess drank, as deeply as those around her. It burned at the back of her throat like a liquid fire and the taste had her screwing her face up before she could stop herself, yet still she drank. In memory of those who had not made it this far.

Nemireth had been to many banquets and balls in her lifetime and they had earned a special place of loathing in her mind. They were not events to be enjoyed but rather chances to engage in warfare of a different kind. The sort of place where an alliance could be made and broken in a single evening, dynasties secured and rivals dethroned. A time of honied promises and vague threats, part of a greater game she had never been interested in playing.

Rohan's answer to such could not have been more different.

After the toast of the King, it felt as if all formality and civility had vanished, drowned in a fountain of ale as those who had been seated arose and intermingled, men exchanging their own toasts and exchanging uproariously funny stories while women cackled and moved from table to table, the words spilling forth from their lips enough to make any lady of high society blush. All the while, the beer flowed like a river, no tankard left empty for too long.

Almost immediately Nemireth was beset by Rohirrim, men and women alike who were more than keen to share with her the memories of the battles that had led them to here;

"You should have seen them at the Ford! Cut their way through any orc that faced them they did! Nearly reached poor Prince Théodred, blessings on his soul!"

"Well, I rode with a patrol on the Old King's Road when they rescued a caravan from uruk-hai! Such a sight have I never seen, armour gleaming in the sun! Horns blowing, it was like the good old days of Thengel!"

"I was there when we fought in Edoras! Those Aeanoreans faced us down like a pack of dogs and fought their corner like true warriors!" Uproarious laughter filled her ears.

"None of that compares to the hall of the Hornburg though! When they stood with us in the very end! The King rode off to die on the field!"

"Aye, it was the Princess who stood with us!"

"Blessings on you, Princess!"

"Aye! Princess Nemireth," A tankard was raised, "The Hallkeeper!"

"Aye!" Every tankard around her was now in the air, a light rainfall of ale falling into her newly washed hair and clean dress, the crowd chanting the word, "Hallkeeper! Hallkeeper! Hallkeeper!"

Nemireth smiled with them and nodded at all the right points but the gestures were hollow for she could not bring herself to feel joy at their recollection. Having so many people pressing around her was disquieting, like an animal in a cage to be gawked at and watched from afar, like she was trapped.

A hand reached in and took her by the sleeve. Nemireth nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Now, now!" Éowyn was laughing, cheeks flushed, "Others desire the company of the princesses! You're making us all jealous!"

Far from being angered by the Lady of Rohan's presence, the crowd cheered and broke into smaller groups, the conversation not so much as skipping a beat as Éowyn steered Nemireth to a relatively quiet part of the hall.

"Thank you," Nemireth's ears were ringing. Only now did she realise how loud everyone had been shouting.

"You looked a little busy," The blond-haired woman laughed, "judging from your face, you could do with my aid. Are you enjoying your ale?" She nodded to the still mostly full tankard in the Princess' hands.

Nemireth looked down at it in wonder. She was so sure she had drained most of it during the toast, "It's…an acquired taste."

"So very diplomatic," Éowyn chuckled, "My advice? Sip on it through the night and in a few hours, there'll be very few capable of noticing."

Nemireth pulled a face, "So I have to keep drinking it?"

Éowyn laughed again, "I'll have to try Aeanorean wine some day and see how it compares."

"Sweeter, with much less…hay in it." Nemireth could not keep a smile from crossing her lips as she and Éowyn chinked their tankards together.

"Have you cut your hair," Éowyn had been glancing it sporadically and only now did the recognition dawn.

"It seemed easier than cleaning it all out."

"Well, it suits you! Once I-"

"Lassie! Lassie! Where is she? There she is! Come here!" The gruff voice was coming from a nearby table and it was unmistakeably Gimli, "Come watch this!"

"Go on," Éowyn gave her a gentle nudge, "I've got plenty to do." And true to her word she was practically swept away by another band of revellers.

Bypassing a table on which Merry and Pippin were dancing and singing to a considerable crowd, Nemireth made her way to where Gimli and Legolas sat with Éomer presiding, leaning over a barrel that seemed to have been brought specifically for the purpose and who was in the middle of explaining something to both, "-no pauses, and no spills."

"And, no regurgitation!" The Dwarf was all but bouncing on the bench, like a child awaiting a gift.

"So, it's a drinking game?" Legolas seemed as baffled as she.

"Last one standing wins!" And with that, Gimli took his tankard to his lips and began gulping it down as if he had not drunk in weeks, followed a little less enthusiastically by Legolas.

"I take it this was Gimli's idea?" She asked Legolas between tankards, arms folded, and eyebrow raised.

"He was very keen." The Elf shrugged before resuming the competition.

She would have passed comment to Éomer but the Marshal of Rohan was much more engaged in the competition than she was, as were many others who stood around and chanted for one or the other, and so she found a good pillar to lean against and watch two of her friends consume as much ale in minutes as she had drank in her entire life. Speaking of which…she took another sip of her own. It tasted even worse than before. How was that possible? Was alcohol not supposed to improve with age? Or was that just wine?

"Nemireth," Aragorn appeared over her shoulder, "You did not feel like partaking?" A nod to the drinkers.

She shook her head, "You?"

"Alas, I am no great drinker," By now Gimli had assembled a small pile of empty tankards before him and showed no signs of slowing down, "And wisdom has taught me never to challenge a dwarf on such matters."

"Will he be alright? He is drinking quite a lot."

"He'll be good as new after a rest," Aragorn smiled, but she recognised the gesture, one that did not extend to his eyes, one that alarmed her as much as any she had seen.

"You're worried."

There was little he could but acknowledge it with a small bow of his head, "Being in the dark about our enemy's movements is concerning, but we shall get word soon."

She did not share his confidence but then now was not the time to dent his optimism, not when there was so much happiness around him. Especially from Gimli, who delivered a burp which could have woken the dead and had Nemireth wrinkling her nose in disgust, "Aragorn, can I ask a question?"

"Of course."

"If you are the rightful king of Gondor, why did you…" She stopped, suddenly unsure of how to finish her question now that he was looking at her, "I mean, how did you…actually, it's okay, I apologise for as-"

"You want to know why I did not take up my birth right," He finished it for her and the Princess groaned at the expression he gave her, one of pain.

"I'm sorry, you don't have to answer."

"It's alright, and had I an answer I would tell you it now but honestly, it was for many reasons. I felt unready, unworthy to take the throne of those great men who had come before me. I felt I could do more good to the north, in the former lands of Arnor and," He sighed, "I feared the Ring, and the power it once held over my kin. There are many reasons, none stronger than the others."

"I'm sorry," The guilt welled up in her and she berated herself for having asked such an insensitive question at such a time, "I think you'll make a great king."

"Truly?" He gave her lopsided grin.

"I would follow you," She nodded vigorously, "These men would follow you. I cannot see why others would not."

He chuckled, "It's not often one gets such royal endorsement." Someone called his name from the crowd, "I must go. Let me know who wins?"

"I would not be optimistic if I had money on Gimli," The dwarf was already swaying in his seat, beard soaked despite Éomer's instructions as between tankards he began to speak all manner of nonsense.

"It's the dwarves that go swimming with little hairy women hehehe" Was one such gem amongst other, much more vulgar declarations that her tutting and rolling her eyes. Half the crowd was growing desperate, seeing that their chosen champion was beginning to falter, "Red meat off the bone!"

"I can feel something," Legolas announced out of nowhere, to the surprise of both herself and Éomer. Would he be the first to fall? "A slight tingle in my fingertips…I think it's affecting me." He seemed alarmed by this.

"What did I tell you?" Was what she thought Gimli said but it came out as a single word so it was hard to know for sure, "He can't hold his liquor…" And with that, Gimli was gone, lying on the floor in a pool of his own drool and drink. The crowd applauded or despaired as money was exchanged and the protestations began over the fairness of the competition, mostly being led by those who were now out of pocket.

With a tut she went to leave but found herself pressed in by the crowd. A man knocked against her, too busy laughing with his friends to notice that he had spilled part of her ale over both him and her. It felt people were pressing around her, different to the start of the evening. Many were not speaking so much as making sounds to one another, or repeating the same phrases over and over, pushing and shoving and tripping. A man sprawled before her to the great laughter of his companions.

Suddenly the room was too warm. Her breath quickened. The air was hard to breath and her head began to throb.

All but throwing the nearest out of the way, she made for the door.

The cool night air hit her like a wet towel across the face. Only then did she realise she had been sweating. Gulping in as deep a breath as she could manage, she ignored the looks of the guards at the door and instead closed her eyes. The muted sounds of the party within the hall met her ears but instead, she focused on the wind.

"You needed some fresh air as well?" Legolas joined her, looking none the worse for his duel with Gimli.

"Yes," The word came out weaker than she expected, but with a breath she steadied herself, "It's…not the sort of party I'm used to."

"Indeed, very different to an elven feast," He was watching her with some worry.

"I suppose they're much more sedate affairs?"

"On the contrary, alcohol flows as freely and the festivities can go for days, albeit not quite as…boisterously."

"I thought you were coping rather well with your drink."

"Elven alcohol is much stronger than that of men or dwarves."

She smiled, "Don't tell Gimli that or he may take it as a challenge."

"His biggest challenge tomorrow may be rising before sundown, I fear."

She laughed, a genuine laugh and it surprised her. They had been so few and far between and now of all times, she had never felt like laughing less. And yet still she had done so.

Taking a seat at the edge of the foundation atop which the Golden Hall sat, with nothing but air beneath her feet and the star-spotted sky before her. Looking back, she patted the stone at her side and Legolas joined her. They were so close she could all but hear his heartbeat.

"I see you've been enjoying your ale," He nodded to the stain at her midriff.

"Not my fault, alas," She made a face, "And not my dress. I hope this is easy to wash out, or people may take me for a drunkard."

"I would not worry. It does not take from your beauty."

"Thank you," She bit her lip and looked to him, looked into those fierce eyes, "What of my still full tankard? Does that detract from my beauty?"

"A little, but no woman is perfect."

Another laugh, a genuine throaty laugh as she dared lean against him. She could feel his body tense under her touch and for a second she feared he would pull away but instead he relaxed and placed an arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer.

"We received news from Lothlorien, you will be glad to hear. Haldir and his men made it back to the Golden Wood. The Lady sends her sincere gratitude to you for your aid in helping so many return to their homeland."

"I am glad," Try as she might, Nemireth could not bring any joy to her voice, spirits that had been so high moments ago dropping like a stone from the top of Orthanc, "That we could be of some service."

He looked into her face, searching, and this time she could not hide her sorrow, not this time. She found she did not even want to hide it, she wanted him to see, "You fear it was not worth it."

"So many men, Legolas," Her voice broke, "They were _my_ men. They died because of me. Xiphos…died…because of me…"

He pulled her tighter to him and she buried her head in his white tunic, feeling tears stinging at her eyes again, "It's my fault."

He placed his head atop hers and she held on to him tightly, as if he were all that was keeping her from being swept away by the winds, "There is nothing I can say that will make your guilt weigh less upon your soul but listen," Even over the wind, the sounds of song from within the Golden Hall were clear, if still muted, "They sing and drink because of what _your_ men did. See those cottages down there with fires in their hearths and children in their beds? They're there because of _your_ men. Already I've heard their name spoken across the city; the Blue Company. They fought as fiercely as I have ever seen men fight and Rohan will never forget them for it."

"But what if I could have saved them, Legolas? What if there was something else, I could have done?"

"It is the harshest reality of leading, Nemireth. Sometimes, we have to accept that there is nothing more we could have done."

She sniffled in reply and dabbed at her cheeks. He was right. There was no magic fix, nothing that would make her feel better overnight, but it was as Xiphos had said; a soldier can die for something he believes in. Xiphos had believed in Rohan. By his blood, and the blood of his men, they had succeeded. He had believed in her and now she saw that same belief in the eyes of her remaining men. She would not let them down. She would not allow that hope be in vain.

"Thank you," She whispered.

He pulled her into a tighter hug and she replied in kind, holding him close and just enjoying his presence, his warmth.

"So, did the princess live happily ever after?"

"Hmm?" She looked back up at him, brow furrowing.

"On the way to Isengard. Did the princess tree escape the count of the forest? Did her father bless the relationship between she and her love from a different tree tribe?"

Now it came back to her and she broke into a wide smile, "He did not approve at first, but when he saw how happy they were together, his wooden heart melted and he blessed their love. They lived happily ever after."

They sat like that for an age, just looking up at the stars. They were in the centre of a busy city and yet they could have been the only two people in the whole of Middle Earth.

"We should go back," He eventually whispered to her, hauling himself to his feet to her protestations as she did the same. "It sounds like the party is over."

"Must we?"

"People will start talking."

"Do you care?"

"And Gimli may have awoken early."

"Ah, now that is much more concerning." Beside her sat her tankard, still a third full and with a noise of disgust she tossed its contents into the night sky.

Legolas was waiting with some amusement, "Éowyn would be-" He stopped, eyes widening as a hand went for arrows that were not at his back. "He is here!"

He rushed for the doors, throwing it open to the confusion of the guards watching it. Nemireth could only follow, heart sinking as they rushed through the now empty hall and to one of the bedrooms. The first thing her eyes fell on was Aragorn on his knees, gripping fiercely to the orb which had dropped at Isengard, twisting and spasming as if he were in terrible pain. It was no longer a glassy black but burning a fierce orange and it felt as if all light, all warmth in the room was being sucked to it. Just as Legolas reached him, he fell and dropped the glowing ball to the ground where it rolled as if it had a mind of its own. She went to grab it.

"Do not touch it!" Gandalf bellowed so fiercely that she leapt back as if burned. The Wizard tossed a cloak over it and like that, the hold it had kept over the room vanished.

"Fool of a Took!" She had no idea who he was talking so but then saw, beyond the prone but breathing Aragorn, Pippin lay perfectly still, eyes wide open.

"No…" She went to him but Gandalf got there first, throwing aside a panicking Merry as he placed a hand on his forehead.

"Is…he can't be…" She took Merry into her arms and held him tight but she could not keep him from watching. All around who had been in the room slumbering stood nervously at the margins, close to the walls. Thundering footsteps came from beyond and before long Théoden stood with a mixture of Aeanorean and Rohirrim troops with blades drawn.

The Wizard was whispering. What he was saying she could not hear but within seconds, Pippin gasped awake, blinking back tears as he looked around in a scrambled panic, glazed in a cold sweat. Any relief Nemireth might have felt was washed away by the look in his eyes. Merry was shaking in her arms.

"Pippin," Gandalf shook the hobbit and drew his eyes to him, "What did you see?"


	32. Chapter 31: Duty Calls

"There was no lie in Pippin's eyes," Gandalf stalked the throne room of Rohan, hands behind his back while the small party watched. Théoden sat in his throne, dressed as he had been for bed and when the urgent summons had come, Éomer and Éowyn to either side of him, eyes lined and red to betray the hour. Nemireth did not feel so tired as she sat on one of the long benches with Merry to one side and poor Pippin to the other. A blanket had been thrown around his shoulders and yet the ashen-faced hobbit still shook in her arms while Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli stood with arms folded and attention wholly focused on the Wizard, "A fool, but an honest fool he remains. He told Sauron nothing of Frodo and the Ring."

Those assembled let out a collective sigh of relief, a release of tension that had been building since Gandalf had called the midnight council. It was sobering reminder of just how great a risk they had taken, to send the enemy's greatest weapon deep into enemy territory without hope of rescue or support, entirely at the mercy of fate and chance. A shudder went down the Princess' spine to even think of it, much the weight that had been placed on the shoulders of Frodo and Sam. Eru willing, they were still safe. Glancing down, she saw Pippin was looking at her with eyes reddened, expression sheepish. She offered him an encouraging smile and squeezed him tighter.

"We've been strangely fortunate," Still Gandalf spoke, still he paced, "For within the Palantir, Pippin saw a glimpse of the enemy's plans. Sauron means to strike at the city of Minas Tirith."

"Minas Tirith," Legolas frowned, "Is heavily fortified. It will not be easily taken."

"Yet it is the keystone to the west's defences," Aragorn had his arms folded now, sighing deeply, "If it falls then Erebor, Rivendell, even Rohan, will be vulnerable. There will be nothing to check his advance to the Grey Havens."

"There is more behind this move than mere strategy," Gandalf shook his head, "Sauron's defeat at Helms Deep has shown him many things. It has shown him that the heir of Elendil has come forth," He nodded to Aragorn, "And that beyond the world, Aeanor has answered the call," A glance to Nemireth, "Men are not as weak as he supposed. There is courage still, strength perhaps even to challenge him. Sauron fears this. He will not risk Middle Earth uniting under one banner. He will not risk the legions of Aeanor again crossing the sea. He will not risk the realms of Númenor assembling their full strength against him. He will raise Minas Tirith to the ground before he sees a king sit upon the throne of men!"

Now he turned his attention to Théoden who leant forward on his throne, deep in thought and looking greatly troubled by the words of the White Wizard, "If the beacons of Gondor are lit, Rohan _must_ be ready for war!"

"Gandalf," The King shook his head, "My people are days removed from a battle in which their very survival was at stake. The Westfold is in ruins, north of the Isen trampled and crushed. Rohan cannot ride to war, we must look to our own defences."

Nemireth could not help but glare at the man who made no eye contact with anyone, not his niece or nephew who looked uncomfortable with his declaration, not the king of Gondor who stood across the hall from him, nor the wizard who raised an eyebrow but made no comment. The urge to challenge him rose up within the Princess but just like that she found that Gandalf was looking pointedly at her, a wordless warning she well understood. Now was not the time for fighting amongst the allies.

"I will go," Aragorn stepped forward.

"No!" Gandalf strode to him, hand on his shoulder to stay the Ranger's energy.

"They must be warned!"

"They will be," Then he leant in and whispered in the man's ear, advice that only he was privy to, before again speaking up, voice booming, "Understand this, things are set in motion that cannot be undone. I will go to Minas Tirith, and I won't be going alone." He was looking directly at Pippin and the Princess felt him shrink under the gaze, the shakes that had been fading now returned which Nemireth's wordless assurances could not stem.

Dawn was beginning to break as the meeting broke up, the first of the weak light breaking through the torch lit gloom of the hall. Théoden stayed where he was, locked in an intense conversation with his kin while Gandalf strode from the hall, muttering to himself.

"Nemireth?" Pippin was looking to her with wide eyes and voice quiet, uncertain, "Is Gandalf angry with me?"

She had no idea, it was always hard to tell with the wizard, "Of course not. Without you, we'd still be ignorant of the enemy's plan."

"What's going to happen?"

"I'm not sure but don't worry, Gandalf will have a plan. He always has a plan."

Though she smiled down at him, he did not smile back, reply whispered, "I'm scared."

She could think of nothing to say to that, for he should be scared. He had been as close to Sauron as any being had been in an age, tormented and questioned, and he had not broken. Pippin had greater strength than he knew but the look in the little hobbit's eyes broke her heart. Long gone was the careful man who had shared a midnight supper with her on the greens of Rivendell all that time ago. It was all she could do to bring him into a tighter hug, one which he responded to.

"Come! Quickly!" Gandalf had returned with a small bundle hanging from his belt. Pippin seemed reluctant to move away from the Princess but with a gentle nudge, he dropped from the bench and went to scurry after wizard. Nemireth watched him go, chewing her lip, before leaping to her feet, decision made.

"Gandalf! I'm coming as well."

She could all but hear Legolas groan out of view, a deep exhale escaping the lips of the elven prince as Gandalf sized her up, eyes fixed on her own. She did not look away, nor did she blink, she wanted him to look, she wanted to know how keen she was. At long last, he nodded.

"Very well. Travel light, for we must ride swiftly."

With a bow, she was gone, all but sprinting to the room in which her armour had been stored the night before. It had seen better days but every scuff, every scrape, every dent was a memory she had no intention of forgetting and so she donned it hurriedly. Partly this was due to Gandalf's need of haste and partly it was because she was more than happy to be out of the stained dress. Her armour was heavier around her shoulders, it restricted her breathing and it was more awkward to move with but somehow felt more natural than a finely woven dress ever could. Her helm still bore the tear from that night before the Deeping Wall, when a fragment of stone had come so close to killing her. That would need fixed but now was not the time.

A knock at the door and Nemireth turned. The protests she had prepared for Gandalf's inevitable intrusion died on her tongue as she saw it was Éowyn who watched her from the doorway.

"Off to war again." It was not a question.

Nemireth shrugged even as fingers moved nimbly to tighten straps and secure hooks around her plated chest and forearm plate, "I wish Théoden could say the same."

A pained expression crossed Éowyn's face, as it always did when her uncle was insulted before her, "He's trying to do what is right for our people."

"How about what is right for Middle Earth?"

The maiden sighed and took a seat on the bed, watching as Nemireth donned the remaining parts of her armour, "I hope he will understand that they are one and the same."

"If anyone can convince him, it would be you."

"And what happens after I convince him?"

"Hopefully, you will ride to the aid of Gondor."

"I will ride nowhere close to Gondor. To the camp perhaps, if I am lucky, but no further. I know my uncle will not allow it."

Nemireth stopped and turned to her friend, who was sat on the bed and looking down at her hands. It felt like her heart had skipped a beat, "You will defy him? Éowyn…"

When she looked up, her eyes were glistening with tears but her expression was fierce, "I have sat in this hall and watched as my country burned, as my cousin died. I have sat in the caves of Helms Deep and listened as my uncle fought for his life, as my lov-" She cut herself off and Nemireth saw the pain there, the grief that had yet to go, that may never go. She knew this because it was that which she felt strongest at the name Éowyn could not bring herself to mention, "But I will sit no longer. Not when my uncle and my cousin ride to war. Not this time."

The Aeanorean Princess looked down at her completed armour, from her cuirass to her greaves, from her helm to her pauldrons to her helm and offered a wry smile, "I believe I am in the worst position to be giving advice on the matter."

A smile crossed the lips of the Rohirrim Maiden and she embraced the armoured Princess, "Stay safe, Nemireth. I can't lose you too."

"And you." They parted, "And keep Gimli from the ale! At least until it is time for battle."

"Now in that, you ask the truly impossible!" And the two women, the princesses of great kingdoms, giggled together like children.

Just beyond the hall, where the wind stood ready to whip at her shortened hair as regularly as a soldier on patrol, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli were waiting for her, along with Amathor who was doing a poor job of hiding his displeasure.

 _"Your majesty,"_ It was he who spoke first in Ellayan, _"Please speak with the wizard. We_ must _be allowed to ride with you!"_

 _"I'm sorry, Amathor,"_ She responded in kind as she descended the steps, checking and double-checking the most obvious things; sword? Yes. Dagger? Yes. Provisions? At the stable. Shield? Stable as well. _"But we must travel quickly and even Súletal cannot keep pace with Shadowfax. We must not lose more time."_

 _"But you will be unprotected!"_

 _"I travel with a wizard, Amathor. I am perhaps the safest person in Middle Earth. Besides, did you not tell me that Karos and Samar's companies are at Minas Tirith already?"_

 _"…I did, your majesty."_

 _"Well, then I have nothing to worry about,"_

She offered him a cheeky smile but he remained stone-faced so she quickly let it slip, _"When Théoden rides, come with him. He will not say no to men of your calibre in his battle line and I would not say no to you joining the battle on my side."_

 _"Of course, your majesty. We will be there with all haste, even if we must ride ourselves."_

 _"Sauron won't know what's hit him,_ " This time he did smile, a dark and eager smile, no doubt thinking of the vengeance he could visit upon the orcs of the dark lord, _"Now go see to the men."_

He bowed and departed, leaving just the members of the Grey Company as they reached the stables. Sure enough, her shield was waiting for her, as burnished and clean as it had been the day the Lady Galadriel had handed it to her, with a small pack of provisions atop Súletal. The grey-speckled stallion was stamping the ground and lowering his head in Shadowfax's direction, as if he were aware of the royalty in his midst.

"Well lassie," Gimli looked no worse for wear after his defeat, rather he seemed more fresh-faced than she had seen since Rivendell, "This is another tangle you're jumping into. Don't do anything too foolish without us."

"Don't worry Gimli," She was checking over the saddle and the supplies, making sure they were strapped down, patting Súletal's flank all the way, "I won't do anything you wouldn't do."

The dwarf snorted indignantly, though it could have easily been a chuckle beneath that brown beard.

"Be wary," Aragorn was holding Súletal's reins while Nemireth checked. As ever, the elven horse seemed much more at ease with the Ranger holding him than any Rohirrim stable boy, "Steward Denethor is a good man, but he is…proud as Boromir was. The city's defences are…undermanned,"

"I understand," Even the thought of Boromir hurt. It was strange to find that in the days following Xiphos' loss, the memories of another who had died, far away from any aid she could have given still stung at her heart, "Don't worry Aragorn, the city will stand when you return. I promise."

Only Legolas remained, wearing an impression trapped somewhere between amusement and exasperation, "What are we going to do with you?"

"You're not the first to ask that question and you probably won't be the last."

He rolled his eyes but stepped closer to her, just as Gimli looked away with a whistle and Aragorn tacitly turned his attention to Súletal. The elven prince ran a hand through her hair, "I wish I could go with you."

"I know," Her heart quickened, breaths shorter as she was transfixed by his eyes. It hurt to part from him again, but she knew it had to be done, and from his expression, so did he, "But Aragorn will need you. Théoden will need you."

"And I need you."

"Well, all the more reason to ride for Minas Tirith," She gave him a grin as they touched foreheads, "Stay safe Legolas. Look after the others for me. Look after Merry."

"I will." He nodded fiercely as she clambered into the saddle, as Gandalf had already done with his own mount, Pippin clinging to Shadowfax's mane, "May the winds watch you."

"And you."

"If you're quite done," The Wizard clucked his tongue, "It is a three day ride as the Nazgul flies, and you'd best be hoping we don't have one of those on our tail. Run, Shadowfax! Show us the meaning of haste!"

" _Noro lim, Súletal!_ " With that command, both horses launched from the stables and through the gate in moments. In minutes, Edoras was far behind, lost beneath the sound of thundering hooves and the wind that rushed by her ears and had Súletal's mane billowing. Holding the reins as tight as she could, Nemireth lowered her head, narrowed her eyes and prepared herself for the great city of men, Minas Tirith.


	33. Chapter 32: Minas Tirith

When Gandalf had said they would ride in haste, he had not been joking.

The next three days were ones of profound discomfort for Nemireth. She had ridden for days at a time, having always refused a carriage when travelling to some distant lord's castle alongside her father and she had galloped some distances before.

Never had she done both as she was now.

There was no time for chat, no time for even taking in the varied landscapes they found themselves in; overgrown plains, small forests and hill lands passed before them as a blur without even a moment's hesitation. For her part, it was all the Princess could do to hold on to the reins in her hands and ignore the increasingly sharp pains in her thighs and down her legs from the incessant riding. How Súletal managed it, she had no idea. In fact, she was certain a lesser stallion would not have been able to cope but any time she tried to slow him down, the grey-speckled mount ignored her. It was as if being close to Shadowfax gave him strength were others would have found none. So she kept her head down, eyes half-lidded any time a stinging wind blew against them and ignoring the heat that beat down when they crossed the exposed grasslands. At least it didn't rain. There'd been enough rain in Rohan to do her for this lifetime and any others that followed it to the ending of the world.

Only once did Gandalf speak. After two days of constant riding in which she had only been able to doze in the saddle, when they had passed over a stream that was indistinct from the dozen others they had powered across, the wizard turned and called over his shoulder, "We have just passed into the realm of Gondor!"

The sound of human speech caught her off guard, her only company having been the rush of wind and the thump of hooves upon the ground. The latter in particular had become as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. Perhaps she should have been more elated to know that she was in the greatest land of men long past but all she hoped for in that moment was that it was a smaller country than it looked on any map so that her ordeal may be coming to an end.

Alas, the mapmakers of old had known better than her the size of Gondor and so it was another day of riding, through landscapes that she cared little to try and differentiate from the others they had passed until at last Gandalf brought Shadowfax to a gentle trot and finally allowed Súletal to draw alongside him, the first time since Edoras.

"Minas Tirith," Gandalf said, no more out of breath than if he had just climbed out of bed, "The city of Kings."

It was a glorious sight; a city whose descriptions could not have done justice to the sight before her. Nemireth wished she could have enjoyed it more, the concentric rings of marble formed around a great spear of rock, like the waves of the ocean breaking before the bow of a ship. She wished she could have taken in her first sight of the city of Isildur, Elendil and Boromir but right now, tired, cold, hungry and with pains in places she hadn't known existed before, she was more than happy just to get inside and get onto her own two feet once again.

What caught her attention more than Minas Tirith, even as they rode towards it, was the range of mountains to the east, beyond a vast river and a city which straddled either side of it. Beyond those mountains, fused together like a great and terrible wall she could see fire and ash being thrown high into the sky, joining a perpetual black cloud that seemed trapped in place above it, as if it had been moulded by a loving hand.

"Is that…" She was breathless, and her lips dry.

"Mordor," Gandalf answered, having mercifully kept a gentler pace. Perhaps it was the sight of Minas Tirith still standing which had calmed him, or the lack of an enemy roaming the flat ground before the city, "Ever has the capital stood in its shadow, the last great line of defence for the west."

"Is it always so…active?"

"Once the mountain slept, but as Sauron's power grows so too does that of his realm. It won't be long now. We must hope that Steward Denethor has Gondor ready."

And so up to the city they rode. Immediately, even through the tiredness, Nemireth frowned. The front gates, broad and taller than any she had ever seen, were thrown open. A constant stream of people moved in both directions, mules and horses alike pulling goods while conversation buzzed throughout, like that she had heard from the windows of the Royal Palace in Minas Luin. Tilting her neck back to see to the top of the gatehouse, she found a few guards watching but certainly not as many as she would have expected. There were a few more armoured men with spears at the gate but on sight of Gandalf they let him pass with bowed heads.

Now that she was inside the city, making her way through the cobbles streets of each layer, she found that Minas Tirith's glorious appearance from a distance did not hold up to close inspection. Many of the marbled buildings were dirty or pockmarked, blocks crumbled and worn in a way that would have had the governor of her own capital weeping in despair. A great many catapults were set atop the battlements but as she passed, she saw many were rotten and unmanned, little more than glorified statues. Still people passed through the network of streets, happily chatting and laughing, market sellers calling out their wares and bargaining occurring all around her. Plenty looked to Gandalf as he passed but just as many looked away or paid him no heed at all. All the while she looked for the garrison and saw some, here and there. Some were on patrol, some stood in towers or on the walls but there were few, so very few.

At least, they reached as far as the horses could go, a courtyard with a set of steps to the highest point of Minas Tirith. Stable hands emerged from the shadows to take the horses and now, only now, could Nemireth descend to the ground. It was a sensation not unlike that she'd felt when setting foot in the Grey Havens for the first time, stumbling as if unsure that the ground would remain in place beneath her feet. The urge was to stretch her legs, to work out the aches and kinks of the journey but already Gandalf moved, surging up the steps with Pippin at his side. Nemireth followed, though she was sure Mount Doom could have been climbed more gracefully than how she took the stairs. She could have sworn that the eyes of every man in the courtyard were on her, guards, farriers and stable hands but she refused to look, to give them the satisfaction. Let them think she was the ancient one to Gandalf's sprightliness if they wanted. She cared not. How would they feel after riding as she had done? That thought gave her some small sense of satisfaction.

Now they were at the highest point of Gondor. In the centre of the vast open space was a tree, gnarled and bare. The White Tree. The tree of the Kings, planted from a single seed saved from the fall of Númenor. In her stories it had looked so much more majestic, abloom with snowy petals, bursting with life, as vibrant as the kingdom which it overlooked. Now it just looked tired, old, a victim to the ravages of time.

"Your majesty?"

The familiar voice jolted her from her own thoughts and in that moment the pain and aches of the journey vanished.

"Karos!" She rushed up to him and threw her arms around the Company Commander. The grizzled veteran seemed taken aback by the gesture and awkwardly patted her back before she finally let him go. How long had it been since she had last him? That night in the palace, the day Gandalf had broken the news of Sauron's return. When he had counselled against making the journey at all, when he had snapped at her and she shouted at him. Before the Ring. Before Moria. Before the Ford of Isen or Helms Deep. It had been so long ago, "I'm glad to see you're safe."

"And I you, Princess," He was the same man she remembered, with an effortless authority that came from complete confidence. As ever, she felt herself shrink before that authority, "The news we have received these past months of your exploits has been…troubling, so say the least."

The Princess gulped, trying to push aside those memories that his words evoked and not helped by how tired she was already, "We accomplished our goal. For now, Rohan is safe and will ride to join us when called. Now we must focus our efforts on this city."

"Is that so, your majesty?"

"We discovered the enemy's plan, Karos. Sauron is going to attack this city! He could do so any day now, as soon as his full strength is gathered."

"Then I suggest we withdraw west with all haste, your majesty."

"What?" She gawped at him, sleep-starved mind taking a long time to process his words, "Did you not hear me, Karos? He will attack this city!"

"If he attacks with his full strength, as you say, then there is little we can do to prevent it. The city is both undermanned and unprepared for siege or storm. We received news a few days ago that three Legions have landed at the Grey Havens. If we march now, we can join with them and face the enemy in strength."

"Karos," She was glaring at the Commander now, boring into those immovable brown eyes, "Gandalf says that Minas Tirith is the key to the west! If we can't stop them here, there may be no stopping them at all!"

"Then I see little reason to throw away more good lives in a lost cause."

She bit her lip and looked away, closing her eyes as she tried to keep her rising temper in check, hands balled into fists, "What's been done to secure the city?"

Silence.

"Captain Karos? What has been done to secure this city against attack."

An exhale from the Officer, "We've deployed two hundred men from Samar's company to Osgiliah, joining three hundred there under the Steward's son, Faramir" He pointed out to the city on the river, "It's the city's only defence from direct attack."

"Good, and?"

"That's it, your majesty."

"That's it? Nothing else has been done?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Lord Denethor has given no orders. There's only so much we can do."

"Is that so?" She turned to the palace, where Gandalf had disappeared to without so much as a pause. She exhaled deeply through her nostrils, teeth gritting, "We shall see about that."

Off she went, Karos following her while the others looked hesitantly and stayed where they were. There were two guards at the doors but they looked alarmed at her approach and did nothing as she threw the doors open.

Within was a grand hall of stone and marble, lined along each side with grandiose statues of the kings of old, with a stone throne atop a dais at the far end. It rather uncomfortably reminded her of her own father's throne room; the same echoey footsteps, the same sense of being in a cave, cut off from the world beyond the doors. There was no sign of Gandalf or Pippin, only a man with long, dank hair sitting in a chair, not the throne itself but a wooden chair before it, lower and less grandiose. He did not look up as she stormed forward, only remembering to check herself at the last moment and bow.

"Hail, Lord Denethor. I am Nemireth, Princess of Aeanor and Captain-Commander of the King's Guard."

No response. He had not so much looked up.

She felt her irritation rise further at the insult, but with a deep breath she steadied herself. Now was not the time for anger, "I'm here to help with the defence of Minas Tirith. To that end, I believe we need to look at the catapults on the walls as they're in a dreadful state. I also can't see much evidence of the garrison on the walls and we should change that, to reassure the city that the threat is being taken seriously. I also recommend-"

"-I tolerate Mithrandir," Denethor at last spoke, mouth twisted into an ugly sneer, "For long has he been a servant to Gondor but you, you dare step into the hall of kings and lecture _me_ on how best to defend my city?"

Another deep breath but the Princess was clenching her hands so tightly that she was sure she was drawing blood from her palms, speaking through gritted teeth, "We need not argue, my Lord. The Dark Lord has turned his eye to this city. We _must_ prepare for the battle to come."

"You hold Council with the Dark Lord, do you?" The sneer seemed to grow, the derision emphasised in every single word that slipped past his lips, "You know his plans? A child from a pretender realm on the other side of the world?"

"We. Have. Seen. It." Nemireth could feel herself starting to shake, "We know that he is coming. You would leave this city open to him?"

"You walk a dangerous line, 'Princess'. I have seen more than you know." He looked down at the broken horn in his hands, "Nemireth of Aeanor, I have heard that name before. You travelled with this…Fellowship, did you not? You travelled with my son."

"Your son…" It hit her like a horse at full gallop, the name of Denethor, the face of Boromir filled her mind's eye and she was struck dumb by the pain that filled her. She remembered the last time they had spoken, when she had tried to convince him to leave the Fellowship with her in Lothlorien. When she had failed to save him, when the Ring's grip had been too strong for her to break. Even now his words cut at her heart; _You traitor...weakling..._

"You too were there then? When my son was killed?"

"I…I was not."

"No? Where were you?"

"I had…" She bit her lip, swallowing hard as she found she could not keep her gaze on his eyes, instead looking to the floor, "I had…departed the company."

"So you abandoned my son to his death," He shook his head.

"It…it wasn't like that…"

"My son," Denethor rose from his chair and limped down the steps, every word now vindictive, malicious, hateful, "The greatest son in Gondor's history, died in a wood with no name, with two halflings of no repute, surrounded by orcs and abandoned by his friends."

"You don't understa-"

"While _you_ , a jumped up _welp_ from a state that shouldn't exist, stand here before me and speak down to me like an imbecilic peasant. My son got to die because he was honourable. You got to live because you were a _coward_."

Nemireth snapped. The anger had been building at his insults, her hurt at the lies and her guilt at the truth he spoke. Her cheeks were flushed with anger and she went to punch him, drawing back a fist without thought of consequence or punishment. She just wanted to _hurt_ him like he was hurting her.

A firm hand grabbed by the elbow, a curt call from Karos, "Your Majesty."

Denethor was right in front of her, eyes narrowed with a bitterness she had seldom seen in man, mouth twisted and ugly, skin pale and cracked.

The Princess threw off her captain and stormed from the hall, head down and cloak streaming behind her. She needed some fresh air.


End file.
